


Forever Knight Reboot Novel

by toezofasupermodel



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Detectives, F/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24842452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toezofasupermodel/pseuds/toezofasupermodel
Summary: This is a full-length novel that honours the writers and original cast.  Nick is having trouble confessing his feelings for Natalie while still craving Janette.  An unstable vampire is in town and wreaking havoc.  Everyone will be impacted in devasting ways in a tale that spans centuries.  COMPLETE:)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I have received zero profits from the creation of this novel._ _All characters are property of Sony television. I have borrowed them for entertainment purposes only._

_Prologue – one week earlier…_

_ Nick's Loft, 101 Gateway Lane, Toronto - _ __ **_ 1995 _ **

He enjoyed playing for her.

So, Nick Knight, a centuries-old vampire and detective for the city, stretched his time-honed musical muscles, sitting down at his piano and performing a ballad from the flick his human best friend, Natalie Lambert had picked. She'd found the piece in a music shop bargain bin beside the video store. He didn't love drippy show tunes, but he would survive if it made Nat happy. It was his first weekend off in forever, so they'd come together for a movie night on his big-screen TV.

Nick had suggested the classic _Citizen Kane_ , but Natalie had picked up _Oliver the Musical_ instead. He was fine with that, happy to watch anything just to be with her. Tonight, he'd had several litres of cow blood before she'd arrived, not leaving anything to chance. Since Valentine's Day, when he'd skimmed his tongue across her creamy neck, it was all he could do to keep Natalie off his mind.

 _Lacroix and his stupid bargains be damned_ , Nick thought. 800 years ago, to save his human sister from an undead fate and his master's oppressive affection, he'd agreed never to love a mortal or face losing her at Lacroix's hands. He'd never felt the need to work on the link with his vampire family before and had been practicing shutting it off entirely. If he had to live with his father-like sire in his life, then it didn't have to be every waking moment. This was going to be a nice night between Natalie and him. The crusty general would never know.

The movie wasn't bad. Nick was pleasantly surprised by the adaptation of Dickens. Although, he liked that Natalie was now snoozing lightly on his shoulder even more. His fluffy, dove grey blanket was pulled up to her chin. _She looks like an angel,_ he said to himself _,_ kissing her lightly underneath an earlobe. The heat of a vein there touched his tongue. They both moaned together.

Natalie's eyes fluttered open at the pleasant tingle under her left ear. She turned to see Nick's devilish smile and returned it. _Finally_ , Nat thought, _some sign he has feelings for me._ She'd begun to think he was no longer interested after Valentine's Day, that whatever she'd done on their dinner date after all that wine must have been embarrassing for him.

Nick captured her chin with his fingers and placed a long kiss on her full, plump lips. _I made you forget what we started._ They'd begun to explore their mutual feelings, but he'd put a stop to it. On that fateful February 14th, at the Azure restaurant, Lacroix had threatened to kill Natalie, guessing correctly that his son had fallen for her. Nick had had to do some quick thinking, feinting indifference when his master challenged him to turn her instead. He'd licked her smooth, perfect skin, reared his head back and showed his fangs. Lacroix had been livid and shouted for him to stop, declaring that he mustn't be in love. He argued that Nicholas would never consider turning his beloved.

Lacroix was right; it was a ploy to shake him off. Nick hadn't been sure what he'd do if his master didn't buy the charade. But he did.

Sadly, Nick had erased Natalie's memory of it, so as to protect her from the entire ordeal. That Valentine's night, when he'd wanted nothing more than to express his heart's desire, had ended in disaster. He'd kept his love for her locked tightly inside ever since.

No more.

Nick could hear her heartbeat pick up. It excited him, pushing him further. He ran his lips gently across her cheek and chin, then down the concave area of her neck and over a teasing purple line.

As he struggled to put a mental clamp on his mind, the dark part of himself wriggled below the surface and weaved its will silently into his thought patterns. Nick didn't realize his fangs had dropped and his eyes glowed, so intent was he on blocking out his master's connection while enjoying the heat of Natalie's skin. He sucked in a long breath, inhaling cloves and cinnamon, then scraped her skin with his teeth and cherished it with his lips.

"N-Nick?" Natalie said. _Is there something on my neck besides his mouth?_ She pulled away with a nervous laugh. "Uh—that kiss was a little sharp. Maybe we should slow it down?"

Nick snapped back to reality, his bliss bubble bursting, as it dawned on him what he was about to do. Instantly, his teeth retracted, and his eyes came back to their normal shade. The awfulness of it overwhelmed him, and he cradled Nat's chin in his hands. "Are you alright?" he gasped.

"Of course," she said with fake bravado. "Just the hazards of making out with a nightwalker." She grinned for show. _Why'd I panic like that?_ _What a wimp!_ Gritting her teeth, Natalie was determined to pick up where they'd left off. "It's O.K. Shocked me a bit. I'm good." Leaning in, she thought, _I'll let him know how_ _okay_ _I really am._

Nick shot from the couch, railing at himself. _What's wrong with me? Flashing fang the minute we start up? Janette would laugh if she knew how little control I'd had with a mortal._ He felt the hungry, sinister part of himself lying in wait, feinting calm for the moment, waiting for its opportunity. He didn't know why he was so pathetic tonight, but it was dangerous. "Nat, you need to go," Nick told her, shifting further from her scent.

She was confused. "W-what's going on?" she said to the back of him.

How could he tell Nat he'd been about to drink from her and likely much worse? Vampires didn't do well with just a sip from the source. He'd always given the impression that he had his inner monster contained and was making strides towards humanity with her vomitus protein shakes. What would she think if she learned he still had all his killer instincts and struggled with them even on this night?

"It's been hours since sunrise. I'm tired. We'll talk later, hmm?" he said wearily.

"Nick? Talk to me."

"Please Nat, just go," he told her gruffly.

Natalie looked at him sideways, then frowned, dumping the cover on the floor and charging for the door. She slipped on her shoes as fast as she could, grabbed her jacket from the tiny partitioning wall between the entrance and the kitchen and balled it up in her arms. Yanking open the elevator, she sped inside, closing the door less than gently.

Nick winced at the grinding slam. Sighing, he went to the fridge to drown his sorrows. They could talk tomorrow (if he had the courage).


	2. Chapter 2

_ 96th Police Precinct, Toronto, Ontario - **1995** _

It was a cold and unsettled, early autumn night in Toronto, primed for twisted undertakings and unsavoury crimes. Nicholas B. Knight, the fair, blue-eyed and scruffy chinned detective entered the rustic stone precinct, bypassing an angry throng at the casino green countertops in reception. He moved past Captain Cohen's open office door into a log jam of metal desks in the wired, officer work area. Constables were busy calming civilians from pimps to preachers. When he reached his desk, he slid onto his chair and tried to look as if he'd been there awhile. Breathing a sigh of relief that his boss hadn't noticed his lateness, Nick shuffled through a heap of coloured papers to see if results had come in on his latest investigation.

"I don't know _where_ he is. I'll call _again_. I tried more than a few times, no answer. He _never_ lets me know about his personal time," Schanke, Nick's partner, could be heard from Cohen's office. "Nada, Zilch. You'd think being together for two years I'd know his habits—nope. I'm sure he just got waylaid with important stuff. We've been inundated with the Granger and Summer's cases, and word on Alex Macmillan is taking _forever_." He shuffled out backwards, shoulders shrugging before the door shut loudly.

Spinning on his heels, the pleasantly paunched family man with long, ash brown side-burns to mitigate a receding hairline saw Nick at the desk facing his own and shot him a look. "Nick, you're forty-five minutes late!" said Schanke, pointing a finger. "You just about got into _so_ much crap! Where've you been? I phoned and phoned. The boss was on the hunt for you. I distracted her with a crueller and a jumbo coffee. She said you must be filing your work at another precinct, cause she can never find it, specifically the Jacklin report. You finished it right?"

"Not yet," Nick said sheepishly. "Thanks for covering."

"It's why they invented partners," shrugged Schanke. "Where were you?"

"At home, I needed to unwind. Guess I had the stereo up too high. Believe me, that report's on the to-do list, along with the other dozen things that need finishing." Tense and overworked, he had stayed up way after dawn with Janette pouring copious amounts of blood and wine. Then, drunk dancing with his lovely companion, he'd dropped his cell on the flagstone fireplace. It was currently in four bits. After more festivities _,_ he'd snoozed through sunset, barely noticing when Janette had left his bedside at nightfall, not even when she'd whispered an endearment and given him a long, lingering kiss.

Nick had smiled then. And she'd likely interpreted it as an approval of their lovemaking. Actually, he'd been having wonderfully vivid, alcohol-induced dreams of another beautiful lady. Presently, he looked his partner in the eye—and kept it to himself. It was true that he couldn't talk about his life in detail. But this time, he just didn't want a cocky expression volleyed his way. "Slept through my alarm tonight. Sorry."

"Really? And _all_ my calls? Even on your cell? You sleep like a corpse."

"So, I've been told. My cell just broke. And, I haven't had time to get a new one."

"It's okay by me. I don't mind. But get on it before Cohen chops your head off you for being out of contact," said the other detective, sitting in his chair. "Remember when that nun smashed into my car? You covered for me during that fiasco. Can you believe she refused to show me her insurance? Had to get her plate number before she sped off!"

"Right. Well, I'll get to the Jacklin paperwork first thing—and hopefully keep Cohen at bay," vowed Nick. He glanced once more at the papers on his desk then back at his partner. "By the way—any news on the MacMillan toxicology? I'd like to shut that one."

"Drug fuelled murder-suicide, I know. No, I haven't seen it. I was just about to phone Peter, but Cohen caught me first," Schanke said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

"Dr. Xhan? Wasn't Natalie supposed to be back tonight?" Nick knew she wouldn't have taken this long to do the tests. He'd missed her while she was visiting her sister-in-law in Vancouver.

"She extended her holiday. Something about an old hotel with a chocolate buffet and a bubble bath….at least that's what Grace said last night when I popped by," Schanke snorted.

 _A chocolate buffet?_ Well, that certainly _was_ Nat's style. She couldn't resist the stuff. Nick was happy to hear that she was having a restful vacation. Things these days were tense, especially when it came to the two of them. Nick needed to hear her voice. She hadn't told him anything about her trip.

In fact, he hadn't heard from her since royally messing up their last casual night together. He tried to convince himself it was easier with her gone. After Janette's visit, Nick was more comfortable than in the past few months. It was nice to be in the company of one's own kind. When things got too hairy, Nick could always rely on Janette. Being constantly around mortals, he struggled at times. She helped him regain some balance when hearts from all corners ticked too loudly.

Still, he longed to be with Natalie—all strings attached. And yet, Nick continued to accept Janette's offers of blood and connection. He wasn't sure if Nat had an inkling of what was going on. Janette was an expert at belittling the petite doctor, all the while hinting at a lengthy history with him that had been going on since his days as a Crusader. She protected her possessions like a lioness. Nick didn't have the heart to confess that he didn't want to belong to her anymore. Besides, there were times when he needed her so badly.

"Yoohoo? Where're you now, Mars or Moosejaw?! I dream the coffee shop next door was 24 hours— _a four a.m. double double for my toil and trouble_ , but I don't do it on duty! Have you tried the mud in the break room? Your spoon will stand like a flagpole." Schanke declared.

"What?" Nick came back to the present. He had a habit of getting lost in his thoughts. It was a product of having too many memories. Blinking, he said, "What is it?"

"A body over at the Central City Community Centre. Someone called it in. Didn't you see Cohen storm out here to share the news? I told her you were thinking about the Jacklin particulars _really hard_. Bats in the belfry was the look she gave you! Sometimes, _even_ I wonder." Schanke got up, grabbing his blue pinstriped sportscoat. He didn't wait before heading for the exit. Nick followed quickly, slipping on his jet black duster.

* * *

_ Central City Community Centre, Toronto - **1995** _

There was a pack of patrol cars parked at the scene when Nick and Schanke arrived. Flashing lights made the building's concrete walls manic swirls of red and blue. A uniformed officer at the entrance recognized the pair immediately, nodded politely and shuffled over to allow them access. Pulling wide the twin doors, they could see a group of professionals milling about on the lobby's brown-specked linoleum.

Patchwork quilts of events and health information were tacked along scuffed, eggshell coloured walls. Following his partner inside, Nick smelled the tin tang of fresh blood. This crime was recent and gory. He was grateful for Janette's "help" last night. He knew internally that he could weather this one. Nick sucked in a great gulp of air and pressed forward.

"Hello detectives," said Dr. Peter Xhan, a soft-spoken man with neatly trimmed black hair and pin-straight bangs covering his eyebrows, as he looked up from his crouched position over the body of a young white male with a white _Atari_ t-shirt and red gym shorts. "Meet David Berton. We found his ID in the gym bag over there." The doctor pointed to a crumpled, red striped backpack. "There's signs of a struggle, cuts and bruises. It was a violent attack. A lot of blood, but with the lacerations to his face, torso and thigh—"

"There should be more," Nick finished flatly.

"Um, yeah," said Xhan awkwardly, the green-as-a-new-tomato medical examiner was not quite comfortable yet in his long, white lab coat.

"It looks to me like whoever did this has _serious_ rage issues." Schanke knelt down beside Xhan. "Witnesses?"

"No, an employee found the body. She's in the office back there." Xhan pointed behind and to the left.

Nick moved past the other detective and the ME. There was an energy around the scene that made the hairs on his arms stick up. It had the familiarity of a vampire with sharp hints of crazed anger.

* * *

_Montreal, Quebec - **1954** _

Janette was perched on an arm of the high-backed chair that Lacroix was presently occupying in the living room of their rented townhome. The elder vampire smiled at her reassuringly, stroking her back with a firm hand while sipping his glass of blood laced wine. "N'inquiète pas ma fille bien-aimée (Don't worry, my beloved daughter). He'll sulk for a while and get over it. You know our boy."

Lacroix spoke as if his son couldn't hear him. Nicholas was slouched nearby across a chaise lounge. Although he could easily pick up the conversation, there was no sign he was listening, having been despondent ever since being taken from California.

"Oui, mon maitre," (Yes, my master) Janette sighed, lacking the courage to speak loudly, her voice subdued since betraying Nicholas's latest hiding spot. Back in Paris, he'd been on one of his silly quests for mortality, and Lacroix had found out. The general had beaten him silly. Afterward, Nicholas had told Janette that he needed to escape. She'd arranged passage on a ship to Halifax, Nova Scotia for him, and then a train to Toronto.

Lacroix glowered at his son. "Poor pitiful Nicholas, to have those who care and worry about your safety. You weren't yourself back in Paris, drinking away your woes, pursuing dangerous concoctions. Who knows what that herbalist had mixed up for you? Besides beheading, sharp stakes and fire, there are more subtle things that _can_ kill you." He didn't elaborate, tipping his glass for another red mouthful. Swallowing slowly, he then continued, "What is it you're thinking over there?"

"That I betrayed you, surely," Janette piped up. Nervously, she wrung the waist ties of her lilac dress and fiddled with the tips of her white, lace gloves. "I did what I thought was best. We worried you'd harm yourself. Your increased efforts to regain your humanity, cause us nothing but concern."

Don Constantine, the infamous Toronto mob boss, had hidden Nicholas in his smuggled cargo all the way to Los Angeles. At first, Janette felt that he was right to run if he was so unhappy with their blood-bound trio. She'd seen him endure centuries of mental and physical abuse at the hands of Lacroix. She didn't understand why he insisted on defying their sire the way he did. The "lessons" would stop, as soon as Nicholas followed his master's wishes. Lacroix had convinced her later that their younger companion was misguidedly on a mission to end his existence once and for all, and that their presence was what he truly needed. She soon felt it best that Nicholas should come back to them—or to her at least.

"Being with family is _always_ best," soothed Lacroix.

Nicholas shot them both a searing look, rose and left the room. He had nothing to say to either. Seven hundred and twenty years hadn't changed anything. He was still a prisoner of Lacroix, a prisoner of the night. He would escape again. His mind was already formulating a plan, as he stepped out of their flat and onto a cobblestone sidewalk. He would go to Chicago and find something meaningful there. In a humanly manner, Nick hailed a cab. One came screeching to his feet. For now, he'd venture to his favourite spot in Montreal.

* * *

_ Central City Community Centre, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick paused before the office at the community centre. There was a constable with the woman who'd found the body. The officer tipped her hat in greeting as she exited, siding up to him. "We did a prelim. Entrance and fire exits are all secure, no sign of tampering."

"Thanks, I'll take a peek when I'm done."

The officer nodded. "Interesting woman," she said, pointing to the civilian, who sat silently inside in a corner. "She found the vic, but didn't hear anything beforehand? Can't imagine she _couldn't_ hear the commotion, even with the door closed. I mean, detective, have you seen the guy?"

"Not pretty," agreed Nick.

The constable shrugged. "Says she didn't recognize him. Not the super chatty type. Hope you can get more."

"I'll give it my best shot," Nick said, then entered the room. He looked into the red, tearful eyes of the young woman sobbing on an office chair. Beside her was a crowded desk of papers, pencils, calculators and cat photos. "Must've been awful to have been here alone." He found a spot beside her on a moulded, orange plastic seat. "I'm detective Nick Knight. You?" he said offering his palm.

The woman grasped it before shrinking back. "Your hand is _freezing_ ," she exclaimed, then sniffled, wiping her nose with a wad of pink tissue and looking into the detective's eyes. They were so compelling, so blue. "Noelle Henriette," she blurted without thought.

Nick nodded. _She's a beauty_ , he observed. Her hair fell in loose, auburn ringlets, and those doll-like lips were as perfect as if they'd been painted. Big, glassy storm grey irises showed a shaken soul. She reminded him of someone. He wanted to hold and protect her intensely, but he shook off the idea. He didn't even know this woman. She wasn't his Natalie. Regaining himself, he continued, "Why're you here at midnight, Ms. Henriette?"

That clear-as-sky gaze was unavoidable. Noelle couldn't help but get sucked in. "I-I was trying to catch up on paperwork. I keep the books and instruct yoga classes," she answered. "I'm a night owl. Do my best thinking when it's late. I came out for a drink from the watercooler and that's when I saw th-the body."

Nick noticed her English was tinged with an accent, French. "Did you hear anything or see anyone around?"

"No. I know that's weird, but no." Noelle rubbed her forehead, perplexed.

Nick nodded. "When does the centre close down?"

"Around ten. I-I locked the entrance hours ago. I know I did."

"Any cameras? Security footage we can take a look at?"

"This place is from the 60s and, if you haven't noticed, run-down as heck. We barely have enough money to stay open. There's no cameras anywhere that I know of."

"Did you set an alarm after you locked up?"

"No, the system isn't sectioned off like that. I was going to set it when I left."

"So, two people just happened to get through locked doors by themselves after hours?"

"I don't know how it happened," she said, shoulders raising, then tapped a finger on her bottom lip. "I guess, it's possible they could've been, uh, in the men's shower when I did the last sweep. I called in there, but no one answered. It's always been…a worry of mine."

"Two people hanging around with you unaware, one of them a murderer?" said Nick, incredulous. "Don't you have a night custodian to help you check for stragglers?"

"No. Believe me, I've asked. My boss says he can't pay for it, only one part-time staffer who comes at five in the morning. I need this job and can't afford to make a fuss," she said, blushing.

"Well, budget or no budget, someone needs to talk to him about making this place safer. I'm sure he can find a way," Nick mentally placed that discussion on the top of his bloated to-do list. "You're extremely lucky you're in one piece. It's not a great idea to be here at this hour. Lots of unsavoury things come out at night, Ms. Henriette."

"I know I'm lucky, believe me." She rubbed her arms across her shoulders with a shiver.

"How's it going in here?" Schanke said, appearing in the doorframe.

"Fine," Nick answered, looking over his shoulder. "Ms. Henriette, this is detective Don Schanke. He's investigating this case with me. Schanke, this is Noelle." Nick turned back to the woman. "I don't think you should be going home by yourself. Is it alright if I have someone drive you?" he told her.

"Y-Yeah—I mean yes, thank you," replied Ms. Henriette.

"We'll be in touch," said Nick gently, as Schanke led her out of the room. He couldn't help but notice her grace. _Yoga teacher,_ he reminded himself, graceful movements were her specialty.

* * *

_ Coroner's Building, Toronto - **1995** _

Schanke had sent Nick for the report on the community centre murder. Xhan had finally finished the examination and had passed on the results to his superior. Natalie had rung to say she was just checking them over. She trusted Peter with most things, but he was just out of an internship.

Schanke had shouldered the brunt of Nick's major mood swings over Natalie of late, as his partner fluctuated from elation, then caution, to outright avoidance of her. However, this time it seemed Natalie was dodging the oft brooding blond. She never phoned Schanke, like she had tonight, not when Nick was at the precinct. But _this_ guy wasn't about to let her tip-toe around while Nick conversely sulked and pined. Schanke pushed his prince-of-pain partner to pick up the report. _Let them deal with it,_ he thought.

Three days had passed since the murder. Nick had heard Natalie was back. He wanted to see her so much but hadn't gotten up the courage to phone. She was upset, he knew; she hadn't contacted him either. He was feeling a little guilty about Janette, but at the same time peeved with Natalie. Why had she left without a word, when they needed so badly to work things out?

It was frustrating being around the object of his desire and not being able to touch her, love her—sample her blood. Nick rubbed his mouth unconsciously with the back of his hand. Something dark stirred for a minute, but he rammed it down. _Too soon_ , he wasn't going to have those feelings so soon after Janette had calmed him. If he let them, thoughts of passion with Natalie would tease and sharpen the predator.

 _Not now_ , _not here_. He had to concentrate on this new case. It didn't help that the only person remotely connected to the crime looked like her. Nick sighed and pushed open the entrance of the morgue. It was time to see her. His heart gave an extra beat in anticipation. Every reason for avoiding this place dissolved with the first trace of cloves and cinnamon, her natural scent. He'd missed it so much. His excellent hearing picked up her discussion with Grace down the hall.

"Sarah and I took a ferry to Victoria. Stayed at this swanky waterfront hotel and strolled along the harbour at sunrise…then loaded our shopping bags till our arms were two feet longer—I'm telling you it was the best holiday in forever!" Nick heard Natalie declare.

"That's because you haven't _had_ one in forever!" Grace laughed.

"You're right," grinned Natalie, giving her assistant a one-arm hug. "Thanks for suggesting it. I hadn't realized how badly I needed to get away."

"Did you use your last birthday gift, that slinky _negligée_ —I mean did anyone special get to _appreciate_ it?" Grace inquired.

"I did. I met an _interesting_ fellow," Natalie giggled. "He was from Toronto! There was some big aerospace convention at the hotel."

"Well, well," Grace said with a mischievous grin. "Hope you got his number!"

"Actually, I did. I—" Natalie was cut off by the sound of the double doors squeaking open. Nick stood there looking as perfect as if he'd marched out of an old movie with his well-defined features, straight Patrician nose, angular jawline dusted with light, day-old stubble and fair, short wavy hair that fell just past his ears. His brilliant blue eyes locked on her. Her stomach clenched. Was it excitement or dread?

Grace noticed the uncomfortable tone that Nick's presence had brought into the room. She dismissed herself quickly, saying, "We'll talk later."

"Welcome back," Nick began with a cautious smile. "I'm here for the report on David Berton." _Always good to start with business_ , he thought.

"Uh—yeah, thanks, he's here," Natalie said, indicating the corpse on her stainless examining table. "C.O.D. is definitely exsanguination. In addition to making a general mess of him, the perp pierced a femoral artery. And from the pictures I've seen of the crime scene—there's not enough blood to account for the loss."

"I noticed that too," said Nick.

"Hit a main artery and it's like a piñata."

"No comment."

"Peter pulled a hair from Berton's shirt for a DNA test that's pending. There were no traces of skin under the vic's nails in defence, unfortunately. Prints at the scene are in the zillions in such a public place. Check this out." She pulled the sheet covering the body gently past the victim's shorts.

Natalie pointed, continuing, "Look at the left inner thigh. The marks on his face and torso are ragged slashes 5 to 7 centimetres long, like deep fingernail scratches, almost claw marks but blunter...with enough force to tear through clothing and skin. That'd take a considerable amount of strength. Then, there's this neat cut of about three centimetres. The killer took his time on this with a sharp blade. And—there's bruising around his stomach to suggest Berton was alive and held down to do it."

"It's a cover job, Nat. Some vampire fed there then cut it to make it look slashed like the rest," said Nick.

"I've never heard of a vampire that drained from the thigh. That's pretty intimate," said Natalie.

"Yes, but if you're trying to fool a 'wise to the ways of the night' coroner, maybe going for the neck is a bit obvious," he explained.

"Does your community know about me?" Natalie shuttered at the thought. She kept Nick's secret and covered up vampire killings so that he was not at risk. But she never thought that many others might know.

"I don't talk about us, it's safer that way," Nick said, reading the panicked look on her face, then added, "but Janette knows you, of course, from your visits to the Raven. My master knows as well, and he's not as motivated to keep our relationship a secret."

Natalie sighed unhappily, then pounced on the last bit, "Ah, relationship? What'd you mean by that?"

Nick's eyes widened. He wasn't prepared for this wicked turn in the discussion. "I-I worried about you," he blurted, then remembered how she'd gone on her spur-of-the-moment holiday before he could explain his latest slip-up, and irritation ignited. "You left without so much as a goodbye, Nat. I had no idea you'd run off to Vancouver. Had to hear it from Schanke!" he exclaimed.

Natalie's anger flared poker-hot. _How dare he get mad!_ "You don't get it, do you?!" she shot back, then muttered, "When do you ever." A break from drama was what the doctor had ordered for herself. She wouldn't spell out her feelings for him anymore. Weren't they obvious? Of course, they were—but he was hot and cold like a flipping faucet. _How many mixed messages can a girl take?_

He'd expressed real interest on Valentine's Day, hugging, kissing and asking her out. They'd gone to dinner, but she'd had some sort of booze black-out and couldn't remember a thing. That morning Nick had been all smiles, lavishing her with attention, then the day after, he'd avoided her as mightily as a salami sandwich. On the night they'd last been together, he'd started something good, then pushed her away again. She was tired of it.

"Natalie—"

"Take this and go, please!" she growled, practically hitting him in the chest with the victim's file, as she whipped it his way.

Without super fast reflexes, Nick wouldn't have caught it. He stared at her a beat, knowing she wanted an apology and to hear that he wanted her. He did, _so_ badly, but couldn't act on it. There needed to be distance between them until he figured out a way. "I'm sorry for brushing you off. That night before you left—it was a mistake. I-I don't want to ruin our friendship." He sighed deeply, sparing a last look in her direction before stalking off. Natalie was stewing at him, hands crossed. Best to skedaddle lest the heat of her glare combust him like the daylight.

* * *

_Montréal,_ _Québec – **1954**_

"Bonsoir Nicholas. Vous êtes de retour." (Goodnight, Nicholas. You're back.) The head curator, Pascal Beauchemin, of the McCord Museum smiled warmly, extending a welcoming hand. _He's upset again_ , noted the short, bespectacled man in a stiffly starched shirt and polka dot bowtie of his blond acquaintance, as they shook. The curator knew his melancholy friend to be cheered only by a hearty discussion of the museum's many artifacts. Beauchemin was astonished by Nicholas's knowledge of the pieces. He became the listener many times, while his friend recounted extraordinary tidbits, especially on anything to do with European culture in the Middle Ages.

"What troubles you?" the curator inquired.

"Family problems," Nicholas grunted. "I need to be away from them."

"Sorry to hear that," replied Beauchemin.

"I want to go to Chicago and see the university museum we discussed."

The curator nodded. "Time away sounds like a fantastic idea. I'll give you the name of my colleague there. He would surely enjoy your extensive archaeological background. He's a specialist in British Medieval and Modern age history, you know. Just don't get him started on the Hundred Years War! That's a long-winded conversation! By the way—where did you study?" he inquired, whilst fumbling in his breast pocket for a pad and pen, then scribbling down a number.

"I'd enjoy chatting with him as well," Nicholas replied brusquely, ignoring the question. When Beauchemin offered him the paper, he took it quickly, gently slipping it in a pant pocket like a valued treasure.

"Delightful, I'll be sure to let him know you're coming," Beauchemin beamed and clapped his junior on the shoulder. "There's something in the back that's sure to interest you," he teased.

Nicholas's eyes lit up. "I'm curious already."

The curator smiled again. "I've known you only a short while, but I've already figured out how to raise your spirits! History is a grand diversion from life's daily trials. Follow me. Let's bury ourselves in it!" He chuckled, leading Nicholas through a snug corridor and into a grand room, blue as a robin's egg, with a lacelike ceiling of iron and glass. In the centre, a towering totem pole stood regally.

"It's from the Westcoast, the Queen Charlotte islands specifically," the old man clucked excitedly.

Nick whistled his approval of the hulking wooden object, meticulously carved and painted with blacks, reds, and whites. Many animals were represented along its length, but the highlight was a huge bird at the top with its expansive wings spread wide. It stood proud, a formidable foe.

"The Thunderbird, a supernatural being of aboriginal origin that could make the skies explode with thunder and bring down lightning bolts upon its enemies," explained Beauchemin, taking in Nicholas's awe with pleasure. "For his reverent position as head totem, he agreed to be the protector of his people."

Nick nodded soberly; his excitement abruptly deflated. _The Protector of his people._ He scowled, as his thoughts returned to his family. He tired of the tyrannical protector that roosted over his life. It seemed as though he had little choice in anything.

 _I **am** the bird…in a gilded cage, _Nicholas supposed. His thoughts drifted to Chicago and the note in his pocket, but they were quickly interrupted by a chilling voice.

"Nicholas!" boomed Lacroix, hurriedly striding his way. "Could you not hear me calling? Come at once!" The tall, former general still sported the severe, platinum crew cut of his fighting days. Paler than even most undead with ice chip, grey eyes, he glared, as he clutched Nicholas's arm, and, ignoring Beauchemin's questioning look, dragged his reluctant son out of the museum.

Nicholas's heart sank. Now nothing in Montreal was his. Lacroix had found his prized hideout.

* * *

_ The Raven Nightclub, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick entered Toronto's trendiest nightspot. The music assaulted his sensitive hearing, and the lights were particularly blinding. He put on sunglasses, but a bouncer motioned to take them off. Squinting without them, Nick searched the club for Janette. At the same time, he tried his best to block his psychic link to his family, not wanting Lacroix to come out and greet him.

Janette was close by, sitting at the bar, gorgeous as ever. Part of him genuinely loved those rich ebony curls, exotic cerulean eyes and light as the moon skin, but it wasn't the same as the intense need he had for Natalie. _Natalie_. Well, that was going nowhere. It was probably for the best. Holding the picture of her fuming in his mind's eye would help him keep his distance. Nick thought of this and immediately knew it wasn't possible. Even if she flayed him, he couldn't stay away. Exhaling loudly, he pushed down all thoughts of her and sat next to Janette.

"Nicholas! Tu es de retour (You're back)! So glad you're here. I knew you couldn't stay away. Still, I'm surprised to see you _this_ soon. Here for an encore?" teased Janette, then reached over the countertop and grabbed a glass of blood wine, raising it to her lips for a long sip.

Nick tried not to look but could smell it. The aroma was heavenly when mixed with her scent of leather and lust. When she put the glass down, he leaned for a kiss, telling himself he was just glad to see her; but in actuality kissing human blood off another seemed less of a sin than actually drinking it himself. When the first drop hit his mouth, the beast delighted inside.

Janette was surprised to see his eyes turn slightly golden green. She felt his immediate hunger, and whispered, "Nicholas, your human face is slipping. Come with me to the back."

Nick shook his head. "I have a case." It was a tempting offer, but he wouldn't go. Inhaling deeply for a moment with his eyes shut, he regained his composure. He could handle his human problems—on his own—for now.

"When don't you? It's a real kill buzz when you talk of work, mon cher."

"Buzzkill."

"Whatever mortals call it."

"Janette, I came for information. I'm on duty."

"And, I'm not. Really Nicholas." She tugged at the collar of his jacket. "Why follow their rules to the letter?"

"I came to ask if you'd heard of a rogue in town. Bloodthirsty, and not afraid to hide it."

"That could describe so many people. Perhaps, one I was with just a few nights ago," Janette poked. "Did I ever mention how irritating it is that you switch from hot and bothered to cold and boring in an eye blink?" she said, irritation rising in a flush of red on her cheeks.

"Sorry." He took her hands in his and gave them a placatory squeeze. "I needed you and you came. I'm thankful."

She nodded, calming. "Better. At least you acknowledge your needs. I'll always be there when you call. Tell me about this case."

"It was a vampire kill, I'm sure of it. Left the body in a public building, out in the open for any mortal to stumble upon."

"Seriously? I haven't heard of anyone new. And, no one around here would dare."

"It was nasty, way over the top. I felt strange, insane energy at the scene," said Nick.

Janette tisked. "Definitely sounds crazy. I mean, the imbecile didn't dispose of the body with all the risks. You need to find this one. I don't think I need to remind you of Montreal. We can't afford to have the Enforcers come knocking, not when secrets abound." She gave him a knowing look.

"Yeah," Nick said quietly.

* * *

_ Montreal, Quebec - **1954** _

Nicholas was shoved into the backseat of a silver, purring Rolls Royce in front of the museum _._ Lacroix jumped in the rear with him and slammed the door loudly. Janette was at the wheel. She gave Nicholas a quick disapproving look before pulling on the gearshift and rolling smoothly into traffic.

"While you were out _cavorting_ with that dust rat of a mortal. We heard news of an unstable vampire, a berserk one, in town. Three kills in three nights. Messy and left in the open. The police are out in droves to find the mad murderer. No one is safe. And now the Montreal community has the _nerve_ to close its doors to _us_! The Enforcers are coming, we need to leave—now!" roared Lacroix.

Nicholas shifted uncomfortably at the news, the humiliation of being yarded out of the McCord building like a pesky pet dampened by alarm. "Does the community think it's us? We did nothing."

Lacroix scoffed. "They're frightened. No one cares for the zealous scrutiny of the Enforcers. Then, there is the _insufferable_ leader of this city. He thinks the rumours about you are true."

"Rumours? What rumours?" Nicholas was shocked. _What do others know about me?_

"Oh, Nicholas," groaned Janette from the front seat. "You need to _cavort_ more with your own kind. It has long been the gossip of many vampires that you drink animal blood, even though you're not of that rat-sucking lower species, the Carouche. It seems to have spread here as well."

"Yes, well, that's no secret," he said. He was proud of his decades of steer blood. It repulsed Lacroix and that pleased Nicholas to no end.

"The community thinks you've gone over the edge, odd in the head like the slum-dwelling Carouche—or worse, primal from denying yourself what we of higher class crave above all else—human blood. They think you are the crazy one, insane and killing at random with no regard for discretion." Lacroix was livid. The hearsay about his son's mental state was an egregious affront.

Nicholas was silent. _Me, the murderer?_ Sure, he'd committed countless murders over the centuries, but he had killed no one for hunger in decades. Animal blood satisfied his needs—most of the time.

"I'm not sure what this community will do. They may decide to dispense some justice themselves. You are at risk. We leave tonight!" said Lacroix with determination. He wouldn't let anyone take his prize.

Nicholas nodded. He'd follow until he could find a way to escape on his own. This berserk vampire business could be a fortunate distraction. He tilted his chin up with a swell of hope and stared at the road ahead, thinking of the piece of paper hidden in his pocket.

* * *

_ Fernridge Apartments, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick stood beside a sliced-up body of a beefy Caucasian male, who was clad in nothing but a navy tank top and white boxer briefs, his jeans strewn a metre away. The corpse was flanked by two giant, steel commercial dryers in the windowless basement laundry of the Fernridge complex. Nick watched as Schanke leaned down to look at the disaster of a man, Daniel Longpré, sprawled on the floor, wondering how he could be so close to the carnage and not smell the blood. From Nick's vantage point, it screamed a banshee song of enticement. Or, was it the coroner examining the corpse's fingernails? At any rate, he had to clamp his teeth together to keep his fangs from dropping, hiding his eyes that held more golden green than blue, until they returned to normal.

He hadn't spoken to Natalie since last night at the morgue. She seemed focused on her work tonight and had not so much as glanced his way the whole time they'd been here. Instead, Nat busily placed a bag over the victim's left hand to preserve any skin samples under the fingernails. He'd never seen her look so lovely. What was she wearing? A fire engine, red dress wrapped her little figure tightly under an open, baggy tan overcoat. _Definitely not work clothes._

"Hi, Nat," Nick ventured, approaching with his best boyish grin. "You look beautiful."

"Yeah," Schanke chimed in, coming up beside them. "What's the occasion? Oh my gosh, is this," he pointed to the body with mock surprise, "your millionth customer?"

"Ha, ha, right. Thanks, you two." She checked if Nick was paying attention and added, "It's date night. I was supposed to be at the theatre, but Peter called in sick. I'm only here to get a feel of the scene. It looks to be the same M.O. as Central City, but I can't say for sure until I examine him."

"Nat," Nick began, before grabbing her hand and gently pulling her away. "We have to talk."

She studied his face. Were his eyes a little off tonight—slightly predatory? _Is he eating properly these days?_ Natalie wondered, having not restocked the pea-green protein shakes she'd created as a blood substitute in ages. Not that he drank them much anyway. _Well, no matter_. _He's on his own for now_. She was on a strict no Nick policy and wouldn't give in. Grace had convinced her that she deserved more than someone who'd be with her one minute and run away the next. Nat tugged her dress hem to smooth the wrinkles. It was time to go.

Steven Williams, the aircraft mechanic she'd met on vacation, had made quick dinner arrangements when their theatre plans had fallen through. She'd promised not to be too long. It was her second shift with Peter calling in sick, one this afternoon and now this. "I've gotta go," she told him and turned away.

"Nat," Nick said. Her lovely long dress flared as she whirled back. _God, she's stunning_ , he thought, having never seen her wear that shade. Her lips were painted a glossy crimson to match. It reminded him of the blood on Janette's lips last night. He wanted to taste Natalie's, for he knew they would be even sweeter. His heart gave a heavy beat, as he felt the inklings of the creature inside. It was coiled tightly around his soul, that shadowy part of himself that Nick tried to lock away. Scrabbling to come out, searing his belly, igniting his need—it wasn't pleased with the three bottles of steer blood he'd consumed before coming.

It wanted more.

It wanted _her_.

Natalie noticed Nick shaking with tension. His eyes were closed, his head turned from her. He'd reacted strongly at gory crime scenes before, Nat knew. "Is it too much?" she asked, coming over and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Her touch burned with its warmth, while her heart fluttered with concern, teasing him horribly. Nick rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, feeling his vampire nature rise. What would she look like in that bloody red dress with his enhanced sight? Other pounding rhythms pressed upon him. Soon, he'd hear the entire apartment block. He had to leave _now_. Brushing her hand away, Nick replied, "Let me go!" in a gruffer tone than he'd meant to.

Natalie watched him speed so fast up the stairs that he nearly blurred. She sighed. _This is the crux of our problem_. _He barely lets me in when he's having a hard time._ Climbing the stairs herself, she hoped Steven was a little more open. This date might have been more appealing if she wasn't so concerned about Nick.

* * *

_ Montreal, Quebec - **1954** _

Janette had driven them swiftly to their flat on St. Onge. There wasn't much to pack, as they'd only arrived three weeks ago. The trio speedily put their things in order. Lacroix summoned their one, freshly hired hand to load the car with more bags. "Marie-Helène!" he called from the door.

There was no answer.

Lacroix huffed and stormed outside. "Marie-Helène what's keeping you. We need to—" he began but stopped cold with the discovery of her motionless body dripping over the driveway. The trunk of the car yawned wide and suitcases were strewn over the hedges. Hovering over her stood Michel Galois licking his fingers. Lacroix had last seen this one well over a thousand years ago and knew he was now the head of the Montreal community.

"Ça fait longtemps, Lacroix (It's been a long time). My thoughts return to emperor Postumus, as his right-hand man. And you, in your second incarnation as a Roman general, so intent on returning Gaul to Rome. I was happy to cut that bastard's throat when he ran like a coward from battle, as happy as if it had been yours." He regarded the heap at his feet coldly. "She was a fiery mortal, great fun to dispatch. Even better to taste." Ruby rivulets still dribbled from his chin.

The Gaul stood a head taller than Lacroix, smiling with all the warmth of an alley cat reasserting its top tier position. Uneven bristles of a gingery short cropped cut and a scar from cheek to chin lent the image that he was wild and scrappy. "Your son has brought the Enforcers attention upon Montreal," growled Galois. "They'll delve into our private lives and spread chaos through my city! I'm here to take away their reason to come and destroy the mad one before he exposes us all!"

"I remember you," Lacroix spat. "As the traitorous soldier who killed his commander! You will not harm my son!" He hissed, baring his fangs, then launched himself at the lanky figure. They met together with a thud, snapping and snarling. Their silhouettes smudged indistinctly with the speed at which they fought, tearing each other's clothing, skin then muscle.

Janette heard the conflict from an upstairs bedroom and knew this visitor would be the first of many unless the insane one was caught. The Montreal leader would inflict many torturous injuries upon Lacroix to get to Nicholas. She had to assist him, if not her knight would be caught and surely killed.

"Run, Nicholas!" Janette said desperately to him, "I need to help."

"No," he argued. "You and Lacroix don't need to fight my battles. I can do this on my own!"

"Don't be foolhardy. Galois is ancient. He will kill you if you try! Go now!" She kissed him quickly and ran out.

Nicholas scowled. _Here it is, my opportunity for freedom_. Yet his stomach soured at leaving his kin in this predicament. Perhaps if he left, Galois and his brood would chase him and leave them alone. He hoped the Enforcers would find the rogue vampire in the meantime. Nicholas fastened his favourite cloak of sable brown about his neck and left the flat by way of the backdoor, taking to the air once outside.

* * *

_ Fernridge Apartments, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick burst out of the complex and down the sloping front walkway to the visitor parking lot. The chilly air did him good, calming the edginess. In his car, he leaned against the steering wheel. _Why do I have so little control with Natalie these days_? Nick frowned, turning his key in the ignition. The radio came on with the rough roar of the Caddy, Lacroix's silky tones permeating the cabin.

"Denial, denial. Not many know of it anymore. This society tells us to acquire everything we desire. Our importance is based upon how much we own. Money, fame…even people as a commodity. We can never acquire enough. What then, of the odd ones who do not subscribe to this. They try not to give in to their heart's desires. Are they wiser than us all, living a peaceful life without the pressure to have it all, or are they longing madly in secret for that which others possess?"

Nicholas hated the nights when the monologues seemed to be directed at him, not needing a reminder of the pressure he faced on his quest for mortality and love. He growled.

A figure caught his eye. Standing in a dense patch of evergreens by the apartment building was a petite woman. "Natalie. Why can't she leave me be? Doesn't she sense the danger?" he muttered. "She doesn't care," he reminded himself of her courageous character. Nick opened the car door. It gave a great groan of age.

Natalie noticed and ran.

 _What was that about?_ Nick wondered, listening to make sure no one else was close by before lifting off the ground. Her staccato heartbeat tapped crisply in his ears, leading him to her without trouble despite a maze of brush and pines. When he appeared in front, she screamed.

"Nat? What's wrong?" he asked.

Noelle Henriette stopped dead in her tracks, dropping her CD Walkman on a large stone with a crack. "W-Who's there?" she said shakily, taking off her headphones and floundering in the dark.

"It's Detective Knight," he answered.

The woman sighed in relief, scooping up her cracked device, then pulling back her hood and letting him lead the way to an illuminated back porch. He took in her thick, red leggings and floppy long jacket. Strips of reflective tape around her ankles caught a beam of light and glittered phosphorescent.

"Ms. Henriette," Nick said, embarrassed that he'd scared the dickens out of her on a jog. "What're you doing here?"

"I live here with my boyfriend, Dan," Noelle said, leaning over and placing her hands on her thighs to catch her breath.

"Why'd you run?" asked Nick.

"I-I thought you were a stalker! You certainly don't drive a regular police car."

"Dan's your boyfriend? Would that be Dan Longpré?"

Noelle's eyes were wide as she asked, "How do you know him?"

"Ms. Henriette, I'm sorry to tell you this—but your neighbour found him on the laundry room floor. Unfortunately," Nick paused. _This is the worst part of my job. There's no good way to say it_ , he thought. "Dan's dead," he told her as gently as possible.

"No," cried the woman in disbelief, shaking her head, as tears spilled out. Noelle collapsed, and Nick caught her before she fell onto the dirt. She trembled, hugging him tightly and sobbing for a long while before he took her back to the front entrance.


	3. Chapter 3

_ The Raven Nightclub, Toronto - **1995** _

The music at the club flowed to a bass-in-your-bones beat. Janette had called, saying she had news to add to his berserk vampire case. Nick hoped she'd learned something good. Two open kills, life was not fun in Toronto right now for the community. He pushed his way through the mass of dancers, mortal and immortal, on the dance floor.

Janette smiled when she saw him and called, "Nicholas." He heard her immediately and smiled back. After a quick hug, they found a back booth.

"I came as quickly as I could. We've got the woman who found the first victim and is, _coincidentally_ , the girlfriend of the second at the station. Schanke is interviewing her right now. She's linked to both crimes, although she doesn't seem physically strong enough to do either. And, she's not a vampire. Any undead prowlers you know of? I think she has a fan club." Nick looked at Janette's tight, strapless gown. It was a deep plum with ornate beading around an empire bodice, different than the current fashion, but she'd never been one to dress in what everyone else was wearing. At least, it wasn't any shade of red. He'd had quite enough of beautiful ladies in red.

"The community's scared. Nobody wants the Enforcers in town. There's talk that they're on their way. If they come knocking _cheri,_ they'll check up on _all_ infringements of the code." Janette saw him nod. She knew he remembered the past.

* * *

_ Montreal, Quebec - **1954** _

In the townhouse kitchen, Janette and Lacroix washed the blood from their sleeves in a wide-basin sink. Michel Galois had left a short time ago, his clothes soaked scarlet. But he hadn't departed without warning he'd send others to hunt down Nicholas. Janette had no doubt that Galois would stake him. She loved her knight dearly and hoped he'd managed to find a way out of Montreal.

Nicholas had, in fact, gone to the McCord Museum. He didn't think he could trust the airport, bus or train station. Galois would surely have someone watching for him. Pascal had understood his friend's urgency to leave, even if he didn't know the whole story, and Nicholas was not surprised when the old man offered his car. Sadly, Nicholas erased the curator's memory of their time. He drove to Toronto, lingering only a day in the city, while Aristotle, a vampire relocation expert, worked out his identity for Chicago.

With his papers in order, Nicholas sold Beauchemin's car and forwarded him "inheritance money" from a distant uncle, along with a little extra. Then, he bought a new set of wheels, wanting something big and stylish with trunk space galore, but settling for a modest clunker, thinking it best not to draw attention. After reaching the windy city, he rang Pascal's professor friend at the Chicago University's Museum of Archaeology, using the name Nicholas Girard. He never changed his first name when moving on, for that would truly mean losing his identity. He hoped that Pascal had not had a chance to speak with his colleague.

It turned out, he hadn't. Girard's passion for history impressed Dr. Helmut Vaughn, head director of the museum, from their very first meeting. The quiet, unassuming man had an extensive résumé as well. Vaughn hired him immediately for the position of part-time instructor of archaeological studies for some of the later evening classes and assistant night curator. The positions had been nearly impossible to fill.

Nicholas settled into his new life, still wondering what had become of Janette and Lacroix—and the rogue vampire.

"They killed him, you know, that mad one in Montreal, not even a day after you left. Galois found a fledgling who'd been half-turned. He skewered him and the foolish vampire that had let him live," Janette explained, stroking Nick's arm and encouraging him back to the present. "You didn't hear? That's why the Enforcers left you alone. They came much later—"

"When the rumours of me being a communist sympathizer spread across the Chicago University campus," finished Nick. That was the only time he'd been happy to see them. The ancient guardians had given him legal aid, even when his loyalty hearing revealed precarious details about his odd habits. In fact, there was no bloodshed in that case, nor was he reprimanded.

They decided it wasn't his fault and hypnotized the members of the committee into believing his innocence even after declaring him guilty. They pushed for an appeal. It was _miraculously_ granted, and the charges overturned. But during the trials, Nick had been exposed as a freak who kept bottles of blood in his refrigerator. His reputation was shot, and he was on the move again.

"And, so you fled as soon as possible to keep your whereabouts from me," Lacroix cut in, joining them. "Predictable," he sighed, adding, "I weary of this cat and mouse affair we've played for centuries," and brought a glass of bloody wine to his lips.

Nick looked at his master tiredly. Yes, he had thought that at the time. It seemed he could never run far enough that the old general couldn't catch him. Nick had loved his incarnations as a teacher. Who had spread those silly rumours in the first place?

He had an idea.

"Nicholas. Stay in the moment, please. You're always living in your past defeats. Enjoy the present for once. Janette told me about your latest case. Do be careful. I felt this odd one briefly before his last kill. It was faint. Hides his thoughts quite well. He's not a new turn but is in fact very old, and angry. I sensed intense, white-hot rage." Lacroix looked at his son with glacial eyes. Experience and age radiated but no emotion to be read easily.

Nick had never understood those subtle expressions and, in truth, didn't care what lurked beneath the surface of his master. Rising from the table, he said his goodbyes, pulled by the need to get back to the precinct and find out what Schanke had learned about the mysterious Noelle Henriette.

Feeling Lacroix's eyes all the way to the exit, Nick wondered how long his master would let this investigation continue before stepping in. Lacroix had always thought his law enforcement career was a farce. Would he allow the Enforcers to come and deal with this _and_ his errant son once and for all?

_I weary of this cat and mouse affair we've played for centuries._

* * *

_ Danforth Avenue, Toronto - **1995** _

"What's the saying? We all get a little crazy sometimes. Whether it's the full moon or—"

Nick clicked off the car radio. He'd had enough lecturing for one night. The drive back to the station was painful, facing his own thoughts. Natalie, where was she right now? Nick wondered about the man from the hotel. Were they out eating gourmet dinners at Azure or some other high-class restaurant? Or worse, was that man holding her right now?

Nick's eyes started to glow. His beast paced, hungry. Ignoring it, he thought instead of Noelle Henriette. What was her relation to an out of control vampire? And how did he even broach the subject without seeming nuts? He was annoyed to have left her alone with Schanke, wanting to be at the interview as well, but Janette had pressed the importance of her information, which turned out to be a few sprinkles of interest from Lacroix along with an irritating scoop of preaching. Nick hoped his partner had been able to get more.

The precinct hummed with its usual, non-stop energy, as Nick slipped past the frenetic front desk. There was always bustle day and night. He cast his eyes on illuminated, interrogation room three. His partner was seated across the worktable from Ms. Henriette.

"Thanks for your help tonight," Schanke told her. Then, seeing Nick hovering, he gestured to come in, adding, "We're sorry for your loss. Captain Cohen has asked that you be placed under protective custody. Your safety's at risk. The person who committed these crimes may try to come after you. We'd like to put you up in a hotel with a couple of officers."

"Of-Of course," stammered Ms. Henriette, sheet-white and exhausted. The last two nights had weighed heavily on her. Great, purple-black crescents marked Noelle's under eyes. Her frame sagged, with her shoulders rounded towards the floor. She smiled weakly at them before two uniforms came by to escort her out.

Seeing how spent she was, Nick decided not to push his own burning questions. He needed to hear what Schanke had discovered, so instead, he gave a her kind smile and said good night before she left. "Schanke," said Nick, turning back. "What's the news?"

"Well, it's bizarre. Turns out Ms. Henriette knew _both_ vics—said she'd seen Berton in her yoga classes when I showed her an old photograph. He'd even asked her out once. They were friendly, but never dated."

"Why didn't she tell us this before?"

"I dunno. She _claims_ with all the cuts on his face, she didn't recognize him." Schanke raised a skeptical eyebrow. He remained detached in these sorts of cases, whereas his partner could let his emotions taint his objectivity. He had a sense that Nick liked this woman.

"What about Daniel Longpré? Did she tell you about their relationship?"

"Well, yeah—that's strange too. They'd been seeing each other for a month, met at the community center where he did fitness consultations. She moved into his apartment immediately. Nick, they were talking marriage." Schanke shook his head in disbelief. "I've never understood quickie weddings. I mean why get hitched before you know the guy's middle name at least. Anyway, she's devastated."

"I can see that," replied Nick, following Schanke out. Sitting down in his chair, he continued, "You know Schank, some people fall in love at first sight," thinking of one lady he'd fallen hopelessly in love with pretty much from their first encounter. It seemed like yesterday…

"Don't go there, partner!" said Schanke, recognizing Nick's thoughts taking flight. "If Cohen catches you daydreaming you're dead! Had to do some major smoothing over after you left to talk to your snitch. She's steamed about interviewing without you. _What's the definition of partner, Schanke, hmmm? Blah, blah, blah_ ," he declared. "Chain-chugging those mega mochas like she does isn't helping her mood. Hope your little adventure was worth it. Anything good?"

Nick winced, longing to be in a normal partner situation and able to share his most recent discussion. Schanke's keen detective skills would be useful right now. But he clammed up instead. "No. Nothing useful," he muttered after a pause. His partner's stare lingered on him. Nick tried to ignore it, zeroing in intently on his paperwork. It was getting harder to fool his teammate. "One thing's for sure," he added, shuffling the Jacklin papers from one corner to the next. "The perp offs the guy that asks Ms. Henriette on a date, then her boyfriend. _Someone_ doesn't want her to be happy."

"Are you sure she's not the killer? Something's not right about that gal. Sure, Berton was cut up bad, but not unrecognizable. How could she _not_ know it was him?" scoffed Schanke.

"She isn't strong enough to have taken him down _or_ her muscly, trainer boyfriend, Schanke. Have you seen Ms. Henriette? She's tiny. A good wind could blow her over," Nick countered.

"So, she had someone do it—for what reason, I'm not sure yet. That needs looking into."

"She's timid. It's not in her."

"You sure? She acts all shy and innocent, plays an Oscar-worthy weeping widow—but maybe lovely Noelle's really a _black_ widow."

* * *

_ Il Pescatori Eatery, Toronto - **1995** _

Natalie was enjoying her date even after the business with Nick. Steven, her handsome company, could have been a TV personality with his square jawline and perfectly placed salt and pepper locks. He was so charming and easy to talk to as well, she forgot her worries shortly after arriving at the restaurant. There was a quick spark, and they chatted eagerly all the way through dinner, getting to know each other.

"It's hard work, twelve to fourteen hour days. Lots of nights, when the birds are broken. And lonely, being the only one tinkering on engines at two in the morning," said Steve.

"I can relate. Around midnight, me and my surgical lights are best buddies," Natalie told him.

He laughed. "It seems we've got things in common, our jobs—and our sweet addictions," he declared, grabbing his fork and diving into his _mousse el cioccolato_.

Natalie grinned. She'd ordered the same. "I can't say no to chocolate anything. I'm a sucker for show tunes too, from Gershwin to Andrew Lloyd Webber. My movie tastes gravitate towards romantic stuff, Meg Ryan flicks especially. What're your favourites?"

"It's old spaghetti westerns for me. _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_ with Clint Eastwood tops that list. Although, I've seen _Sleepless in Seattle_ and Ryan's very good.

"I heard she might do another rom-com with Tom Hanks. I'd pre-order tickets."

"Maybe, in future, I can pre-order for us both," Steve said boldly. He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and asked, "How's your dessert?"

"Divine," she said, scooping up another velvety spoonful and popping it in her mouth with a dreamy expression.

"So are you," he declared, taking her hand and giving it a tender squeeze. "I'm enjoying this very much. Thanks for coming out."

"My pleasure. It's been a while since I've had a date night—and no work drama."

"Taking a break from work is healthy. I haven't been on one of these in a long time, either. I must confess since my wife passed, I wasn't brave enough to dive back into the _scary pool_ that is the dating scene, until now. Then I saw you at the Empress hotel. I knew I wanted to get to know that beautiful face. So, I mustered up the courage."

"Flatterer," Natalie blushed, then added softly, "Sorry to hear about your wife."

"Thank you. Breast cancer, two years ago. But, it's time to move forward," he told her resolutely.

Natalie smiled. "Good for you. I'm glad you asked me out. And, since we're into confessions of our dating life or lack thereof, I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. As a coroner, I know it's crazy," she snorted, "but not many guys line up for my number." She leaned over and said cautiously, "freaks people out."

"It doesn't freak _me_ out. You're smart, sexy—

"And I work with dead bodies."

"We all need something to talk about at dinner parties," poked Steve. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards the band, who had started a slow number. "Didn't you say you love Gershwin? Got to be his best. Care to dance?"

Nat nodded, and he rose and took her by the hand, leading her to the quaint little dance floor in the centre of the restaurant. A five-piece jazz band was playing on a small stage, while a young soloist in a silver sequinned gown stood at a stand-up mic and belted out _Someone to Watch Over_ _Me_ with enough smoky style to make Ella Fitzgerald proud.

The couple cozied up, Natalie placing her arms around him, as Steve placed his hands on her hips and bent in close. They twirled together past other laughing and swaying duos. When they'd arrived back at the same spot, Steve put his palm in the small of her back and dipped her deeply. When she came back up, Natalie was giggling with delight.

He grinned widely. "You're a wonderful partner. Exactly…what I was looking for."

 _This is heaven_ , Natalie thought as she nestled in close, even as her mind itched with a reminder that there was another man who'd always watched over her.

The two wound down the evening at her place over a bottle of wine and more Gershwin. Natalie melted into Steve's arms on the couch while he stroked her curls.

The kiss just seemed to happen.

They looked at each other, the time was right, their lips brushed together and connected. Natalie looked up, her cheeks red, and declared, "You're exactly what I was looking for too."

She kissed him deeper, then took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

* * *

_ Gateway Lane, Toronto - **1995** _

Somewhere else, someone was playing something more aggressive than a torchy, love song. Nick pounded on the keys of his grand piano, hoping to remedy a dark mood by butchering Bach. Before going off duty, he'd gone to check on Ms. Henriette...

In the bedroom of her hotel suite, he found her sitting at a wide, scalloped mirror, stroking her wavy hair with a white, plastic brush. He could easily imagine Noelle perched at a vanity of old, pulling an ivory comb through those ringlets. Nick blinked twice to shake the vision, but something else called him to the past.

Noelle didn't hear him enter and thought she was alone. These past few days had been the most horrifying of her life. She longed for Dan's support and one of his patented, guaranteed-to-cheer-you-up peanut butter milkshakes. A calming melody came to her, and she sang it softly.

Nicholas recognized the song as one his mother had sung to him and his sister, Fleur when they were children. He hadn't heard it since he was a boy in Brabant. It was an old-fashioned French lullaby that reminded how after gloomy, rain-filled days come light, cheerful mornings. In his time, mothers had rocked their babes to sleep humming the tune. It brought peace to his heart. He thanked Noelle silently for this, for peace was definitely needed right now.

"Comment savez-vous cette vielle chanson, Mdle. Henriette?" (How do you know that old song, Ms. Henriette?) Nick inquired, revealing a little of his original silky Belgian accent.

Noelle turned in fright, then exhaled, relieved when she saw detective Knight. _Damn, he's stealthy_ , she thought. Recalling the title of the song as _La Pluie Me Lave_ (The Rain Washes Me) or something, she considered it some more but her mind blanked. "Il faut m'appeller Noelle. Je sais pas. Étrangement, je me souviens plus la mélodie," (You must call me Noelle. I don't know. Strangely, I don't remember the melody anymore) she said, rubbing her temples where a headache was blossoming.

"It's fine, Noelle," Nick assured, not surprised that she spoke French. Ontario had a huge Francophone population. However, it was her accent that was distinctly not from around here. He'd heard it a thousand times past—very refined Parisian. "Your accent—are you from France? I swear, I hear a little something European," he ventured.

"No, Montreal—until now," she replied with a soft smile. "Although I'd love to visit someday. I've never been anywhere except here. You? Your French is excellent."

"Mine? I, uh, picked it up, here and there, in my travels," he said vaguely. "What brought you to TO?"

"My dad died. It was just the two of us. Everything reminded me of him, made me sad. So, I decided to move to the _illustrious_ suburbs of Toronto, Markham to be exact, for a fresh start—couldn't quite afford a downtown address. That is until I moved in with Dan. We shared the rent."

"When did you start at Central City?"

"I-I finished my bookkeeping certificate three months ago. I've been there all the way through, teaching yoga in between school. Now, I'm full-time and I do both."

"Anyone else besides David Berton or Dan, ask you out since you came from Quebec? At the centre or elsewhere?"

"No," she replied. "I've got a cozy office space that I nest in, and being new to the city, I haven't got to know many people." She pulled her knees to her chest, hugging them for comfort. "I'm shy." Cheeks flushing, Noelle explained, "It took a few tries for Dan to talk me into dinner."

"Any people you know, co-workers, old friends, boyfriends—anyone that might have a grudge against you? Or an odd interest?"

"No, none, um, that I can think of," she said, as a yawn escaped. "Detective Knight, I'm nobody special, honest—just a bookkeeping yogi who works too much and loves her tabby. A feline who probably didn't appreciate that I dumped a full bag of cat food in his dish and left with a policeman. I don't see why anyone would be interested in me, much less obsess or hold some kind of grudge."

"Don't sell yourself short. There's nothing wrong with being a cat-loving yoga instructor." He smiled. "Get some rest," he told her before leaving.

On the elevator ride to the parkade, Nick thought how this case just got weirder and weirder. Did he have anything to go on? _Schanke can't be right about her hiding things._ But how could Ms. Henriette talk like a Parisian native and not have even visited once?

Back at the loft, he shrugged off his coat and placed it on his leather couch, famished, this case wearing him out. Nick grabbed a bottle of red from his refrigerator. It slid coolly down his throat, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste. He made a face. Steer blood never got tastier with age.

After downing a few more bottles, Nick sat at his piano to play. Blood always made his body thrum with renewed energy. Not able to sleep just yet, he looked at the sheet music before him. It was the song Natalie had picked, _As Long as He Needs Me_ , a soppy show tune that she loved. He threw it in the air, remembering their last night together. Upset, he pounded out Bach as the paper fluttered to the floor.

_One week earlier..._

He enjoyed playing for her.

So, Nick stretched his time-honed musical muscles, sitting down at his piano and performing a ballad from the flick Natalie had picked. She'd found the piece in a music shop bargain bin beside the video store. He didn't love drippy show tunes, but he'd survive if it made Nat happy. It was his first weekend off in forever, so they'd come together for a movie night on his big-screen TV.

Nick had suggested the classic _Citizen Kane_ , but Natalie had picked up _Oliver the Musical_ instead. He was fine with that, happy to watch anything just to be with her. Tonight, he'd had several litres of cow blood before she'd arrived, not leaving anything to chance. Since Valentine's Day, when he'd skimmed his tongue across her creamy neck, it was all he could do to keep Natalie off his mind.

 _Lacroix and his stupid bargains be damned_ , Nick thought. 800 years ago, to save his human sister from an undead fate and his master's oppressive affection, he'd agreed never to love a mortal or face losing her at Lacroix's hands. He'd never felt the need to work on the link with his vampire family before and had been practicing shutting it off entirely. If he had to live with his father-like sire in his life, then it didn't have to be every waking moment. This was going to be a nice night between Natalie and him. The crusty former Roman general would never know.

The movie wasn't bad. Nick was pleasantly surprised by the adaptation of Dickens. Although, he liked that Natalie was now snoozing lightly on his shoulder even more. His fluffy, dove grey blanket was pulled up to her chin. _She looks like an angel_. He kissed her lightly underneath an earlobe. The heat of a vein there touched his tongue. They both moaned together.

Natalie's eyes fluttered open at the pleasant tingle under her left ear. She turned to see Nick's devilish smile and returned it. _Finally_ , Nat thought, _some sign he has feelings for me_. She'd begun to think he was no longer interested after Valentine's Day, that whatever she'd done on their dinner date after all that wine must have been embarrassing for him.

Nick captured her chin with his fingers and placed a long kiss on her full, plump lips. _I made you forget what we started._ They 'd begun to explore their mutual feelings, but he'd put a stop to it. On that fateful February 14th, at the Azure restaurant, Lacroix had threatened to kill Natalie, guessing correctly that his son had fallen for her. Nick had had to do some quick thinking, feinting indifference when his master challenged him to turn her instead. He'd licked her smooth, perfect skin, reared his head back and showed his fangs. Lacroix had been livid and shouted for him to stop, declaring it mustn't be in love, for Nicholas would never consider turning his beloved.

Lacroix was right; it was a ploy to shake him off. Nick hadn't been sure what he'd do if his master didn't buy the charade. But he did.

Sadly, Nick had erased Natalie's memory of it, so as to protect her from the entire ordeal. That Valentine's night, when he'd wanted nothing more than to express his heart's desire, had ended in disaster. He'd kept his love for her locked tightly inside ever since.

No more.

Nick could hear her heartbeat pick up. It excited him, pushing him further. He ran his lips gently across her cheek and chin, then down the concave area of her neck and over a teasing purple line.

As he struggled to put a mental clamp on his mind, the dark part of himself wriggled below the surface and weaved its will silently into his thought patterns. Nick didn't realize his fangs had dropped and his eyes glowed, so intent was he on blocking out his master's connection while enjoying the heat of Natalie's skin. He sucked in a long breath, inhaling cloves and cinnamon, then scraped her skin with his teeth and cherished it with his lips.

"N-Nick?" Natalie said. _Is there something on my neck besides his mouth?_ She pulled away with a nervous laugh. "Uh—that kiss was a little sharp. Maybe we should slow it down?"

Bliss bubble bursting, Nick snapped back to reality, as it dawned on him what he was about to do. Instantly, his teeth retracted, and his eyes came back to their normal shade. The awfulness of it overwhelmed him, and he cradled Nat's chin in his hands. "Are you alright?" he gasped.

"Of course," she said with fake bravado. "Just the hazards of making out with a nightwalker." She grinned for show. _Why'd I panic like that?_ _What a wimp!_ Gritting her teeth, Natalie was determined to pick up where they'd left off. "It's O.K. Just shocked me a bit. I'm good." Leaning in, she thought, _I'll kiss him again to let him know how okay I am._

Nick shot from the couch, railing at himself. _What's wrong with me? Flashing fang the minute we start up? Janette would laugh if she knew how little control I'd had with a mortal._ He felt the hungry, sinister part of himself lying in wait, feinting calm for the moment, waiting for its opportunity. Why was he so pathetic tonight? It was dangerous. "Nat, you need to go," Nick told her, shifting further from her scent.

Natalie was confused. "W-what's going on?" she said to the back of him.

How could he tell Nat he'd been about to drink from her and likely much worse? Vampires didn't do well with just a sip from the source. He'd always given the impression that he had his inner monster contained and was making strides towards humanity with her vomitus protein shakes. What would she think if she learned he still had all his killer instincts and struggled with them even on this night?

It's been hours since sunrise. I'm tired. We'll talk later, hmm?" he said wearily.

"Nick? Talk to me."

"Please Nat, just go," he told her gruffly.

Natalie looked at him sideways, then frowned, dumping the cover on the floor and charging for the door. She slipped on her shoes as fast as she could, grabbed her jacket from the tiny partitioning wall between the entrance and the kitchen and balled it up in her arms. Yanking open the elevator, she sped inside, closing the door less than gently.

Nick winced at the grinding slam it made. Sighing, he went to the fridge to drown his sorrows in red. They could talk tomorrow (if he had the courage).

* * *

_ Present-day, the Newlands Motel, Toronto - **1995** _

"Henriette," someone whispered in Noelle's ear as she slept soundly, "N'inquiète pas, mon ange (Don't worry my angel). We'll never be apart again. I'm working on a way." The shadowed figure stroked her long, reddish-brown curls. He loved her as much as ever. An urge to cover her with kisses swelled, but he dared not, doubting he'd be gentle enough not to wake her.

In the hallway, the elevator doors chimed and opened. Heavy footsteps clomped close, then the lock jiggled and disengaged with a beep.

 _Another one to spoil things! Humans, so bothersome!_ The stranger cast a glance at the body leaking its last drops against a side door. The policeman's eyes were frozen fear-wide. _First one, then two. Dead as a doornail, boohoo_ , snickered the vampire, thinking himself a fine poet.

The door cracked open and he was on the mortal, taking him down to the floor instantly. "Don't scream or struggle," he persuaded in echoing, saccharin tones. "I live for a good fight. Adrenaline-spiked meals are quite the drug, but you'll wake her."

The human melted into a slack-jawed zombie, and, with lion's teeth, the stranger attacked. When the mortal was deceased, the mystery man drooled once more over Henriette, such a fragile, beautiful doll, then slipped over the windowsill and out.

* * *

_ Coroner's Building, Toronto – **1995** _

"DNA results from the hair on David Berton's shirt came back inconclusive. The lab couldn't tell if the sample was human or animal," Natalie briefed Nick and Schanke, as they hovered over the body of Daniel Longpré.

"Probably somebody's golden retriever," muttered Schanke.

"Maybe. Well, the M.O. of this one matches Central City. Longpré definitely died from blood loss, and it happened much more quickly with him. You can see that he has three times as many cuts as Berton. And a very deep thigh wound," explained Natalie.

"Where all the blood went is anybody's guess. There wasn't more than a few splashes at the scene—again," Schanke chimed in.

Natalie nodded.

"A blood fixation? The perp collected it somehow for his deluded fantasies?" supplied Nick quickly, using his and Nat's earlier agreed upon excuse.

"Gross, but not farfetched. Maybe, he's started a trophy collection. But what about the extra wounds? The perp knew how much it took to bleed to death, yet kept on slashing," said Schanke, thoughtful. "One angry guy," he whistled.

"Longpré _possessed_ Ms. Henriette, as his girlfriend, unlike Berton who just showed interest but got turned down. It enraged our killer even more. This was no hired hit, Schanke. I agree some things about her don't add up, but this was a crime of passion. Somebody wants her badly and doesn't want anyone near," Nick told him. He could identify somewhat, burning at the sight of Natalie tonight with no clue how to right his wrongs.

The roses on her desk, speaking volumes about the success of her date last night, had set him off. And she was practically floating around the room. Nick wanted to hunt this guy down and—he shook his head to clear it. There was no comfort in realizing he'd briefly tuned into the same wavelength as the killer.

"Okay, I'll admit 'crime of passion' makes more sense," said Schanke to his partner. "I phoned Montreal PD for anything on her. There's no history of violence, no police reports, restraining orders, nothing. But I'll keep on it. For sure we can't let this lunatic get to her. We need to talk to the neighbours one by one. Someone must've seen something."

"I agree, Schank. In fact, take my car. I'll catch up." _As uncomfortable as it'll be, I've gotta talk to Nat_ , Nick thought. He tossed the keys over.

"What're you talking about? You won't be able to go anywhere," said Schanke, catching the jingling mass in his palm.

"I'll be fine. Nat can drive me later. Just go."

"You and Nat together, _good idea_. Talk things out a little," replied Schanke, having clued into the flowers—and his partner's reaction. He _was_ a detective after all. Leaning in, he whispered, "Words of wisdom buddy, Myra talks, I listen," then scooted out the door.

"Happy wife, happy life," Nick heard his friend mumble down the hall. He smirked before surveying Natalie. Her hair was pinned up attractively with a few curly tendrils on the sides. She must have had it done. _Another date?_ He'd have to talk fast. "You look lovely," he told her.

Nat laughed and attempted to cut the tension. "It's the new me. I'm trying to look a little less like a boring old coroner."

Nick chuckled. "Nat, sorry for yelling. The way I acted at the crime scene was—"

"Weird," she cut in. "What happened?" To hell with her no Nick policy for now. She was going to get to the bottom of this. "You can always talk to me."

"I know," he swallowed hard. Here was his chance. He could share his secret cravings for her and see if she'd run away or keep it to himself and watch Nat walk out of his life.

The risk of not talking was worth the possibility that she wouldn't understand.

"Natalie, I—"

The phone rang. She groaned and moved to answer it. Sitting on the side of her desk, she picked it up and said, "Lambert speaking."

Nick swore under his breath.

"Uh-huh. Is she okay?" Natalie said, looking concerned. "Good." She paused while a voice squawked in her ear. "Yes, he is Captain, but Schanke's not," she continued, glancing at Nick. "Cohen wants you to turn your cell phone on." Louder squawking. "Well, he left in Nick's car about 5 minutes ago, back to the Fernridge. Yes, I'll tell him if I see him. Did you want to talk to Nick?" Natalie listened for a beat. "Oh, alright. Yes, I will." She placed the receiver on its cradle.

"My phone broke a couple days ago. I haven't had time to get a new one. She's angry about being incommunicado," said Nick, having picked up the entire conversation with his excellent hearing.

"Fuming," Natalie replied.

He cringed. "I'm in for a major lecture soon."

"Sounds like it. Your partner hasn't turned on the CB in the Caddy. She can't get him on his cell either. We have to go. There's been a double murder, two officers. Someone got to the men guarding Noelle Henriette. I'll explain the rest on the way."

* * *

_ The Newlands Motel, Toronto - **1995** _

Natalie briefed Nick on the ride over. He seemed stressed, offering only a small grunt to indicate he was following along, then oddly, rolling down the passenger side window while her car was at highway speed and tipping his head over the glass. Furious wind whipped over his face, making his hair blow wildly. The sound of it almost covered up her voice entirely.

 _This is the ride from hell_ , Nick thought, pulling himself back in. He'd been locked in this car, enveloped in her scent, for half a merciless hour. The fantasies springing to mind were terrible. Something wasn't right. He'd seek out Janette tonight. With his nerves raw, he jumped when Natalie parked the car and said, "We're here."

Nick gave her a weak smile and rolled up his window. "Good." He felt her eye him. She left the car brusquely, slamming the door hard, passing journalists and news cameras who had heard the gruesome news. It was a race to catch up with her at the hotel entrance before the doors shut in his face.

Two Mounties were already in the suite when they arrived. They were speaking with John Mason, an officer who'd come to relieve the night shift. Nick, already jittery, tried to extend his senses as much as possible. The last thing he needed was to show every mortal that there was another fiend in their midst. Again, he felt a wisp of crazed, vampire energy, impatience and—boiling hot displeasure?

One body lay against a door dividing the suite with the next, the other by the bed. The first he recognized as Grady Finlayson and the second he wasn't sure. Grady was sitting up with a locked expression of terror. Nick had no doubt this man had seen a monster. Unlike the other victims, he noticed there were few scratches—but a clean 20cm slash on his neck. _The perp's getting bolder_ , Nick thought. He saw Cohen in the corner. She was a shorter woman with a blunt blue-black bob and massive shoulder pads that spoke of a serious Napoleon complex. He decided to risk talking to her. "Hi, Cap. Natalie and I came as soon as we heard."

"Knight, good to see you. No Schanke, I see," Cohen said flatly. "We need a lead here detective. Four kills in a week, including two officers! This guy has to be stopped _now_!" Nick detected the scent of chocolate and coffee on her breath. He'd never actually had either, but it smelled like the instant Swiss mocha Natalie liked to drink at the loft. Chocolate and coffee, a match made in heaven, she'd told him.

"Yes, Mam'. Schanke's over at the Fernridge. We haven't had time to question all the tenants, now this," he pointed grimly. "I'll go down to reception and check the visitor log, see who's been in and out. Did Ms. Henriette get a look at the perp?" Nick could hear her in the suite beyond, talking with an officer.

"No. And to make our lives even sweeter, Houston and Crandel from the RCMP are joining the investigation," Cohen replied.

Nick didn't blame the captain for being angry or frustrated. This case was, of course, receiving piles of press. He had seen "Crazed Killer Stalks Toronto" plastered over his morning paper. There was a four-page critique of the police's performance. And now with cops dead, the federal police were nosing around. _Dandy_. "Any psych. profile?" he asked.

"Fresh off the presses." Cohen handed him a chubby file from her briefcase on a nightstand. "Dr. Bauer says it's probably a man—but we know that by the sheer strength it took to slaughter these types of victims. 25-40 years old. The perp is unable to express his _appreciation_ for women in a normal way. Bauer thinks that our guy may have had serials before here, so I put out an A.P.B. He fantasizes about women to the point of obsession but doesn't have the skills to make anything happen, then is enraged when he sees others with the object of his affection." Cohen studied her detective. Did he look paler, if it was possible? _He's such an odd one._ It would take a whole team of investigators to figure out what made him tick.

The report was in line with Nick's theory. He had a sick feeling, identifying again in part with the killer. He'd felt the same emotions, was still feeling the same emotions, thinking of Nat's new guy. Nick looked over at her. She had her eyes on him.

"Nick!" Nat whispered, gesturing for him. The feds had finished looking at Grady a few minutes prior. She'd been alone for the first time. That's when she'd taken a closer look. There was quite a bit of blood on officer Finlayson's back. It flowed behind him and down the door. Tipping the man over, she'd checked for additional wounds. That's when Natalie had seen something weird.

Nick rushed over. "What is it?" he asked.

"Help," she said, and together they flipped Grady on his stomach and laid him down. A large puddle of blood had soaked through and left a dried, flaky mess on his shirt. Natalie made a shallow cut in the fabric with a scalpel for a better view, and together they delicately peeled it back. In the officer's skin, a word was cut. It was badly smeared, but Nick knew what it said.

Brabant.

* * *

_ Fernridge Apartments, Toronto - **1995** _

Schanke pulled up to the complex, munching the last part of his dinner, spicy Greek lamb skewers. It looked as though there had never been a murder. No unusual activity, no extra people hanging about. Odd that, considering the press the two killings were getting. They had dominated the news this morning when he'd turned on the tube. The city's local stations were broadcasting on the hour updates by the time he'd left for work. You'd think they'd be all over this site, but they weren't.

They'd be all over this site unless…there was another one. They flocked like vultures around the most recent carnage, hoping to get any sensational scraps. He dug out his cell for an update, but it was dead. _Crap_! The police radio was silent too, the lights off. He'd forgotten to turn the damn thing on! Quickly, he flicked the dial. It came to life, a green light shining brightly, displaying the frequency.

"Calling 81 Kilo. 81 Kilo? Schanke? Call in if you're out there," said the disembodied voice of Rita the dispatch clerk.

Schanke grabbed the mouthpiece and clicked the transmission button. "Yeah, dispatch. This is 81 Kilo. What's going—"

The sound of smashing glass cut him off. He had just enough time to register a fist flying his way. Its impact was like a bowling ball to the head. The world went dim, as his body slackened, held from slumping by a seatbelt.

"81 Kilo, you there?" called the dispatch clerk. "Schanke are you—"

Faster than eyes could follow, the door was opened, and the chattering CB obliterated. Scooping the man in a fireman's hold, the stranger, sensing there were no heartbeats nearby, besides this offensively garlic-reeking human's, took to the air.


	4. Chapter 4

_ The Newlands Motel, Toronto - **1995** _

"Knight!"

Captain Cohen's voice stopped the hunter flashback taking shape in Nick's mind. He blinked twice and snapped back to the scene.

"Nick. I just had a call from dispatch. Schanke has been unreachable for over an hour. He's not answering his radio or cell. Rita says the last time she tried he responded but the message cut off," Cohen blurted. She looked down at the body and added, "What _is_ that? Is there some kind of word there? I think I see a T."

"Uh—I'm not sure, Cap. Natalie and I were trying to figure it out," Nick answered fast. "I'll see what's up with Schank. Probably fiddling with the dials and messed up the CB again." He rose, leaving Natalie to tend to the body. Houston and Crandel swooped in, swarming over Grady, buzzing and bothered like a pack of Africanized bees. Natalie would have to do some talking, he knew, trusting her to keep his secrets hidden. The tails of his dark coat flapped wide with his swift exit. Finding a quiet place outside the hotel, he flew.

* * *

_ The Fernridge Apartments, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick touched down in the thick trees behind the Fernridge, immediately sensing a jumble of madness— and smelling Schanke's lingering, _eau de_ souvlaki scent. The crazed vampire had left an even stronger impression this time. Nick breathed in steaming hot hatred and deceitful conniving. It stoked his anger. With his irises burning, acute to the darkest of shadows, his fangs dropped sharp and deadly.

He didn't bother to calm himself. Hunter instincts at their keenest, Nick closed his eyes and scanned for other signs of the berserk one and Schanke.

 _Nothing_ , he thought after a pause.

He opened his eyes and turned his golden-green gaze towards the complex. A curvy woman strode out onto the only lit porch and took a seat in a rocking chair. Nick could hear her thrumming heart.

Tha-Thump, Tha-Thump. He let out a soft snarl.

 _Innocent_ , something whispered inside.

With shame, Nick shoved the beast back, remembering why he couldn't give the darker side of himself free rein for an instant. There was the faintest sound of laughter in his mind. _Didn't Lacroix teach you to hide your thoughts, young one?_ said a reverberating screech. _You're quite the prize aren't you, a wolf protecting the sheep._

Nick whipped around, extending his senses for the vampire behind the voice.

 _You are weak, your mental abilities almost non-existent. You lack the strength to find me on your own,_ the voice cackled. _I need you, Saint Nicholas. Look."_

Images sliced into Nick's mind, and he grunted. In one, Schanke was tied up and beaten _._ Another showed him mouthing off and receiving additional blows. Lastly, his location, one of past regrets and great sadness for Nick, became clear. "I'm coming," he said aloud. The images abruptly disappeared as the other vampire pulled away. Just then, the familiar rumble of a certain sedan made Nick turn.

Natalie pulled her hulking, blue Ford into the visitor parking lot. She saw the Caddy with the driver door ajar, its window smashed, and rushed over to take a closer look.

"Nat?" Nick called from behind. The coroner spun around, looking weary. Her fancy hair had come unpinned in several places. Blackish purple crescents rimmed her eyes, a combo of smudged mascara and stress. "Why're you here?" he said.

"I couldn't reach you and I was worried. What happened to the Caddy?" asked Nat.

"I don't know, but whoever did it, I'll kill him," Nick ground out.

"Is Schanke okay? I heard Cohen at the hotel." She didn't mention how much that message on the corpse had frightened and worried her about Nick.

"No, he's not." Nick relayed his encounter with the other vampire. "I have to go," he said after, tentatively gathering her in a back hug.

"You need Lacroix's help here. Don't go without reinforcements," replied Natalie, wrapping his arms around her tighter. "I don't want to lose you," she whispered, almost too soft to hear.

He heard her perfectly and gently kissed her cheek. "I'll be fine. Whoever this guy is, he's not thinking straight. I can use that. And—I don't know that my master would come." _I weary of this cat and mouse affair we've played for centuries_ , Lacroix's confession resounded in Nick's head. He trotted back to the seclusion of the trees to take flight.

"Be careful!" Natalie called after him.

* * *

_ The Human Touch Foundation, Toronto **1995** _

Nick landed before the waterfront warehouse of the defunct Human Touch Charitable Foundation, scowling. He hated this place and had not been back in a year. The windows were boarded up with raggedy, mismatched planks. The ruddy brick structure had been used to stockpile food for victims of global starvation until the charity had gone bankrupt. Its founder had been found to be dipping into its funds. He'd even kidnapped his own daughter and murdered his wife to cover it up. Nick imagined he could feel the distraught spirit of the pretty psychic who'd helped him crack the case. She'd been fatally shot inside. A whisper of wind brushed his cheek. He shrugged it off and headed for the back.

An invitation from an insane vampire was a trap for sure. But Nick had little choice. Blanketing his senses over the area, he picked up the racing heartbeat of a certain human. _Schanke's scared to death, but he's alive_. Nick tore the boards off a ground floor window with his bare hands, breaking the glass as quietly as possible, then hopping inside. It was dark, but that wasn't a problem.

There were burlap bagged stacks of mouldering grain, powdered milk and soybeans. He proceeded cautiously between two, roof-high rows of rancidness. A memory poked at him. _You're a monster who kills_ , said a wavy-haired woman with an English accent. He ignored the accompanying hiccup of guilt and pressed on, knowing all too well that blood tears couldn't raise the dead.

The aisleway flowed into a wide-open area, encircled by more towers of food. He could see Schanke on an old office chair, bound and blindfolded, his heart hammering in terror like rounds of automatic ammo. Anger boiled inside. Thoughts of disembowelling his partner's captor made his teeth grow. Flashing a nasty smile and hissing low, he made his presence known to the other occupant in the room, a red-haired, beanpole of a vampire in the shadows.

Nick would end this one—now. He let out a roar.

"Youngster, for one who can't bear to kill, you harbour a lot of rage," the vampire laughed, sitting legs-crossed on a wooden crate. Rising, he stood taller than Nick, even taller than Lacroix, wild hair jutting out in all directions and green-gold eyes gleaming bright. A scar travelled from his cheek to a defiantly uptilted chin through petal pink skin, the vampire's pallor erased by blood and death.

 _This bastard has to be sent to Hell_ , Nick said to himself, or the Enforcers would surely come. "What is it you want from me?" he said around fully-extended fangs, voice raspy with the emergence of his beast.

"You, Saint Nicholas!" The old one chuckled. "I thought my carving was quite good." He grinned enormously, pleased with himself. "Finally, I've got you here, animal drinker—had to get around the grumpy general, you know. Left enough of a trail on the bodies to clue in a vampire detective and get the community stirred up. No doubt, Lacroix's busy dissuading Enforcers from coming and scrutinizing his quirky son. He's never given up on a misfit such as you! What a futile endeavour. If I could die, it would be laughing. I'm utterly embarrassed for him!"

The stranger stepped closer. "I sensed that bullheaded conscience of yours decades ago in Montreal—your conflicted concern for your master and the woman. I don't have to know a face to recognize _you_. Not even Lacroix knows how different you are, does he? I suspect if he did, he'd have given up trying to grind you into a mould of himself."

 _Mad as a hatter_ , Nick thought _._ He couldn't make sense of this nut's ravings. "Who are you?" he ventured.

"Michel Galois, the leader of Montreal. I came for you when you stopped by my city."

 _The Gaul._ Nick had never met him but, thinking back to that voice from forty years ago, he recognized it as the same. "I remember. You came to kill me!"

"I did. I wanted your blood!" The tall vampire thundered, baring his canines.

Nick responded with a snarl, and they circled each other, pacing like panthers.

"What's going on? Are those guard dogs?! Nick, this guy's a loon!" shouted Schanke, wriggling in his chair. "Don't let him mess with you!"

Nick noticed his partner's floundering efforts at freedom.

And Galois took the opportunity to strike.

He hoisted a syringe from an inner pocket of his tan suitcoat and drove it into the younger one's arm. Nick scraped at his skin, as electric sparks raked over him, travelling up, his head igniting in agony. He clutched his stomach, moaning as it gurgled and feeling as though something was about to come up. His strength waned steadily, and gravity pulled ever harder until he collapsed on the concrete floor.

"Nick!" yelled Schanke.

"Had enough?" said Galois, ignoring the flailing mortal and concentrating on the heap at his feet. "I don't mean to be cruel. It's just part of the mixture—your garlic-poisoned blood. Have you ever heard of the Abarat manuscripts? They're a crumbling collection of fantastical spells and legends from before your time. One concoction, a mortality elixir, calls for blood from an immortal with the heart of a human. It's how I gave Henriette a new life. Although, she doesn't remember," said Galois, before tinkering in a brown satchel at Schanke's feet.

Nick continued to clutch his stomach.

The Gaul waved a finger at him, saying, "You were hard to get my hands on! Becoming a vampire overwhelms our goodness, our light. There's no clawing back to humanity, nor the desire. We survive as cold-blooded and unrepentant creatures. But then, there's you," he tisked, "surviving somehow on animal blood, lusts tethered by a conscience that should be ash. You're a horrid abomination—and a bountiful blessing."

He scooped up a shiny silver needle with a coiling end of plastic tubing and jabbed it into one of several darkening veins popping out across Nick's arms. His grin was maniacal as he witnessed sludgy brown blood do loop de loops into a clear container.

Nick floated in and out of consciousness. Pain continued to jolt him as if he'd been plugged in. The floor was chilly and comforting.

He closed his eyes for a respite.

"What'd you do to Nick?! The minute I get free, I'll—"

"You'll what?" rasped Galois, slipping Schanke's blindfold down around his neck.

The detective took in his freakish face with enormous eyes. "Good God!" he managed.

"Your deity is not here," responded Galois, swooping in to bury his fangs into flesh.

A hand connected with his jaw before he could.

The force sent him colliding into a bag of beans, ripping it open and spilling the contents with a snake-like rattle. Dazed, Galois shook his head then scanned for who had come from behind.

"I told you never to harm my son!" Lacroix hissed through lengthening fangs, his eyes a furious red-orange. Nicholas was on the brink of life and death, he knew, for there was no whisper of his mind, no sporadic thump of his heart. "Tell me what you've done!" commanded the general, blurring as he sped to Galois' side, pressing a wooden tip to his chest.

"It was for me," Galois gurgled, his nose broken and bloody, "part of a mortality potion. My wife Henriette had grown tired of life as a vampire. She threatened to walk in the sun. I acquired a copy of the Abarat decades ago. It took me as long to find one ingredient, blood of a vampire with a human heart. Your Nicholas is a rare find. I thought I could catch him in Montreal. The story of a rogue was a ruse, I confess," he said speedily, words pouring out in an attempt to escape the sharp point cutting into his skin.

Silently, his fingers dug into his other inside pocket. "I'd heard tales of Nicholas's odd habits, his quest for mortality, his guilt. That's the kind of blood I needed. Did you know he gave samples to his doctor friend? It was nothing to get into her lab. But only one was untainted. I remember the day I offered the elixir to Henriette. She was so sick while her body adjusted, I feared she would die! But finally, my wife looked at me with tears of water, not blood—then screamed when I tried to touch her! My angel was afraid of me, her saviour! You can't kill me. My kin will hunt you down. What's done is done. Nicholas is better off dead. He was the worst vampire, truly. Choose another. I only want to be with the one I love. She knew that I, as a vampire, could never love a mortal without the urge to kill her. She feared me instinctually, as prey fears a predator. So, I made the choice to become human as soon as we're far from here. Henriette will remember my love. I hadn't planned, of course, on the dolts who came knocking. But they served a purpose in the end."

"I've no fear of any idiot created by you!" Lacroix spat. Any chip off this old blockhead would undoubtedly be an imbecile. Raising the stake, he prepared to rid the world of this trash.

"Wait! You can't save him. Your ancient blood will react fifty-fold to the garlic in his system. But you _can_ change him. I've destroyed the Abarat. I'm the only one with the cure now! Able to grant mortality—and take immortality. A little leverage if the Enforcers dare to chase us!"

"You lie!" declared the general.

"I swear it's true! Set me free, and I'll give you the remaining ingredients. Show compassion to us both and he'll finally cherish you as you've always wished!"

"Stupid Gaul!" Lacroix thrust the stake into Galois's chest, then twisted it to deliver as much misery as possible. "This is for Nicholas!" he hissed, pushing the rod further until it ripped out the other side with a gush of blood and tissue.

The Gaul howled, clawing at the offending object, but it was useless. The syringe rolled out of his hand and under an empty, wooden pallet.

"Here's your compassion!" raged Lacroix. "You're lucky I didn't ram it elsewhere _then_ into your heart!" _This idiot knows nothing of me and my son,_ he thought. The master vampire had spared Nicholas the pain of poisoning once before in Germany when the boy had come close to obtaining a copy of the Abarat.

Nicholas couldn't be cured; he _was_ that particular cure. All of his extraordinary blood would dilute the serum and leave him nothing but dead. Lacroix had his own brand of compassion that no one need understand, and he fiercely protected his son's best interests.

The Gaul yowled, as he flopped to the floor.

And, after a few wheezing breaths…he expired.

Lacroix turned to Schanke, whose eyes threatened to pop out and roll away. He focused on the detective's heart and commanded, "Sleep!" As the human slumped over and snored, the vampire cocked his head. He heard light, hesitant footsteps.

Natalie approached cautiously, having trouble seeing in the dimness. "I can guess who you are, and I know what to do. Help me find a light switch. I wonder if there _is_ any electricity in this damned place anymore," she said.

Lacroix's eyebrow raised skeptically, but he obliged, locating and flicking on a lonely lightbulb, while Natalie sat beside Nick, opened a bulky medic bag and took out her own needles and tubes.

It didn't take long to bleed several litres of infected blood out of his system. The tar-like fluid filled four bulging units by the time she was done. Nick looked positively ghastly, his skin a clammy grey. Natalie listened for a heartbeat but couldn't find one. "I've bled him out. We need to infuse fresh blood ASAP."

"Garlic poisoning is pervasive, doctor. He needs _human_ ," Lacroix told her.

"I've got it covered," she said simply. In reality, Natalie was numb with concern and doubtful her plan would work, but she squashed this down and focused on her doctor skills.

"How so?" said the general, having detected no blood in her bag.

"I'll give him mine," answered Natalie. In the rush to get here, there hadn't been time to stop for reserves. She rolled up her sleeve.

Lacroix shook his head. "That's suicide. Did Nicholas not tell you about the others?"

"Others?" she asked, not really wanting to know.

"Vampires cannot sip from mortals, especially ones they _care_ for," Lacroix remembered the night at the Azure restaurant. His son liked this one but insisted it wasn't a deep attraction. "Nicholas was enamoured with a wine merchant's daughter. He toyed with her, believing he could take just a little at a time. Eventually…he killed her. He couldn't help himself. My guess is that he's already feeling the same deadly pull towards you," the elder said flatly. He'd felt Nicholas's turmoil and unexpectedly intense pangs of hunger of late across their bond. "Give him that one instead." He pointed to Schanke's snoozing form.

"No. He's been through enough. Nick won't hurt me. He's not the same person anymore." Natalie had made up her mind and didn't hesitate to put a needle in her arm, putting a pairing shunt into Nick's wrist.

"Nicholas isn't a _person_ at all, but as you wish," replied Lacroix.

Natalie ignored him, feeling the pull of Nick's supernatural physiology immediately, which began to suck up her blood in ticklish tugs. His otherworldly side would not die at all costs. After a few moments, he began to stir. She smiled.

Nick's eyes shot open, fiery red and fixed on her, as a low, threatening growl rumbled in his chest. Neither Natalie nor Lacroix had time to react. Nick struck in one fluid movement, latching on wildly and suckling desperately at Nat's neck.

Lacroix grinned, letting him go. Nicholas feeding on a human was a sore sight to see. This was his son, a vampire pure and simple.

But, as moments passed, the prediction of a murderous magnetism for the doctor became reality. Nick, rapt in his feeding, began to draw deeply from her with uncharacteristic ferocity.

Lacroix scowled and yanked his son's struggling form away. Nick looked up at him with blood smeared cheeks and snarled, displaying oozing scarlet teeth. "Nicholas!" The elder cuffed him.

The slap barely registered, as Nick's mind reeled. _Natalie._ He was a searing hot force consisting solely of hungry impulses. Warped images and Nat's intense feelings overwhelmed him in a tangle of incoherency. His mind screamed for her, and he begged in a gravelly voice, "I have to have her! I _need_ her. I've waited, _wanted_."

The monster had trounced upon the man that had chained it.

There would be no denial anymore.

 _Natalie!_ Nick snapped his jaws at her and delighted in the fear that spiced the air. "Let me go!" he yelled at Lacroix.

"Listen. Fight this! You are in control of your needs and wants. If you take her this way, she'll be torn to pieces!" declared Lacroix in an echoing, hypnotic tone. He'd never seen his son like this. The pull of this woman was more than just an affinity. Even now, Nicholas thrashed against his considerable mental strength, focusing on Natalie with a less than friendly purr. Putting a hand under his son's chin and jerking his head up, Lacroix forced their eyes to meet. He drew upon the depths of his vast power and bludgeoned the young one's mind. _You don't need this woman! You do not want her blood!_

"I need her, want her…I _love_ her!" came the reply, as Nicholas tried desperately to get past him.

 _Love_. Lacroix grimaced. It was the headiest of drugs, giving strength to the weak. He sighed. Several months past, when his son seemed to be drawing ever closer to this human, he'd threatened to kill her as retribution for leaving his cherished Fleur behind. Nicholas had sworn to him then that any feelings for the doctor were a pretense to earn Natalie's help with a cure.

Nick had put on a noteworthy act that day.

It was clear now that he cherished this woman

…and was single-mindedly intent on killing her.

There would never be such a perfect opportunity to collect payback...and yet Lacroix could not allow it.

If Nicholas lost his love as he had lost Fleur, the boy would never be the same. For all his past words to the contrary, Lacroix couldn't bear to see the light in his son's soul extinguished likewise. This mortal needed to be excised immediately from Nicholas's heart. He had to forget he'd ever loved her at all.

Lacroix's eyes narrowed, as he reflected on his son's intense urges. Nicholas was no ordinary night-dweller, surviving mostly on animals. _Has the act of resisting human blood infuriated the hunter inside? Would a vampire who denied himself feel the pull to kill his beloved even faster?_

The general shook his head in disbelief, before shoving himself into Nicholas's spinning mind and burning his orders inside. "You do NOT love this woman. You do NOT desire her more than any other!"

Nicholas howled, putting his hands to his temples. "No!" he gasped.

 _You do NOT love her. You've NEVER loved her!_ the general insisted.

 _No!_ Nicholas shook his head again.

Lacroix gathered still more reserves and pushed harder. _Listen to me! You are mine and you will submit!_ he commanded with enough of a mental shove to leave a fledgling drooling and jabbering.

Nicholas's flailing and growling ceased abruptly…as his heart froze, the frenzied feelings extinguished.

"Forget this incident, these impulses," said Lacroix, his voice softer but insistent. "You've had a difficult night, and you're grateful for the _transfusion_. The doctor is a good _friend_."

Nick shook his head again to focus before his sire cleaned the blood from his face with a handkerchief.

 _I don't love this woman. I've never loved her_ , Nick repeated. He could feel the warm thrum of human blood in his veins, as a calm washed over him. "Natalie," he said, straightening. "You saved me tonight," he told her gently.

"N-No thanks necessary," she said, putting on a brave face while holding a hand firmly to her neck wound...a wound he didn't seem to notice.

"Rest, my son," urged Lacroix, his hands still poised on Nick's shoulder.

"I'm grateful," Nick said genuinely to Nat before collapsing against his master in a hypno-induced slumber.

* * *

_ Coroner's Building, Toronto - **1995** _

"They're lovely," Natalie said, cradling the bouquet of lilies she been gifted.

"Well, nothing's too good for milady." Nick grinned with a courtly bow. She was precious to him heart and soul. And, that lovely scent of cinnamon and cloves was now no more entrancing than any other mortal blood. His closest friend had helped him in his time of need with her speedy actions. Nick was thankful more than flowers could say.

"What'd you tell Noelle Henriette?"

"Nothing. She's finally free. I wouldn't take that away. Let her live a normal, mortal life. She's moving on slowly now that everything's over—might even go back to school. Kinesiology or something. I _did_ change her memories slightly from what Galois had planted. She won't be going back to Montreal." He was a little sad to have made her an orphan.

"Sounds good. Noelle won't run into his cronies then. So, about this dinner date tomorrow—I know it's supposed to be casual—but are you up for dancing?" Natalie had been bitten hard by the bug to boogie, sure she'd prefer her new dancing partner even more than the last. Steve had been understanding when Nat had said it wasn't working out.

"Are you kidding? You can't be raised in my time and not know how to dance. From the Basse to the Fox-trot—I'll waltz you off your feet!" Nick laughed and grasped the doctor's hands, taking her for a spin around the examining table. When they'd arrived at the same spot, he leaned in close and hugged her. "It's the least I can do. Pick you up at seven?" he said, then waited for a nod before turning to leave.

Natalie smiled and watched him go. When the coroner was alone; however, her mouth flipped to a frown, for she was still shaken by the events at the warehouse, having never seen Nick so savage. But Nat had also learned that the side of him she adored loved her too. That should have brought warmth to her heart—it didn't. There was no future for them as long as the vampire remained.

Lacroix's tricks would have to hold until then. If only she'd managed to get some of Nick's poisoned blood from his clutches to analyze. Natalie looked at the vials of blood on her counter filled with the last of Nick's samples from an old hormone experiment. It had been a temporary cure that had failed miserably.

Her control sample was missing. Natalie sighed.

"Galois," she muttered, knowing where it had gone.


	5. Chapter 5

** Part 2  **

_ Bayview Ave., Toronto - **1995** _

"Myra says to impress a woman, you have to get _creative_ ," Schanke declared, peering over a submarine sandwich. "So, on our last date night, I got creative. We had dinner at a nice restaurant—at the track. It was the Breeder's Cup. Did you know they have TVs at every table? You can eat, bet and watch the races at the same time. What's better than that? The beer was cheap—and I won a hundred bucks. But it was a bust for Myra—not romantic enough." He chomped off a bite of pastrami and chewed audibly.

"Sounds perfectly romantic to me," replied Nick with a smirk, knowing his friend had the best of intentions.

" _I know_ ," Schanke said incredulously. "Women are like bad news anchors. They don't broadcast the whole story. You have to interpret. Then you _get it_ from them when you get home." He let out an audible breath, then added, "And if they ever say, _do I need to wax my upper lip,_ watch out! Like horizontal stripes, _never ever_ tell the truth."

"Good tip," Nick muttered, his eyes on the road ahead. The tires on his mint coloured '62 Cadillac squealed, as he turned east off Bayview onto Dawlish Avenue, ignoring the loud flapping sound the plastic covering his smashed window created. The Caddy was due for repair in a few days. Presently, they were headed into one of Toronto's swankiest neighbourhoods, Lawrence Park.

The pair was checking out a burglary gone wrong. A young man had forced his way into a home when an elderly woman answered the door. The husband had heard his wife scream and retrieved his hunting rifle. Now, there was a body cooling on the living room floor. Constables were already on scene, calming the couple and their neighbours.

"Learn from my mistakes, single one. It could save your bacon someday." Schanke shoved the last large piece of sandwich into his mouth. "That needed bacon," he complained.

Nick remembered his decades with Janette. What they'd shared for over ninety years wasn't a traditional marriage, but it had elements. He recalled skirting around the subject of her lengthy beauty routine—lest he be beheaded. The boundaries of their union, however, were much looser than a mortal bonding. It was the intimate nature of feeding. Most times, they'd hunted separately, locked in another's embrace until the climax of death.

As a young vampire, he'd hunted more often than she, an addict for the rush of his prey. There was no calm at first. Unquenchable even after gorging, the hunger would scrabble at his belly anew. It made him uncomfortable to think about it. Nick couldn't share those memories with anyone, especially Natalie, for he'd never allow his closest friend and the true monster inside to meet, in tales or otherwise. Like a fledgling, he'd hungered madly for her blood not long ago.

The night at Azure on Valentine's day had made things spin out of control. Nick had declared that he didn't love Natalie. Theirs was a close friendship for which he was deeply grateful. His bargain with his master remained unblemished. Lacroix was skeptical and had ordered that she be turned, so Nick had licked Nat's smooth neck pretending to go through with it. The act had warded off the general, who shouted at him to stop, but it had nearly cost Nick his sanity, teasing his beast to its limits. He'd hungered at the mere thought of Natalie afterward.

Thankfully, the incident at the Human Touch had fixed the problem. He shivered, remembering the garlic cocktail pumping through his system. She'd saved him, ending the deadly pull he'd felt towards her with a transfusion. But this sudden calm rubbed at him, for there was no reason why her blood would quiet his urges. In the past, if he managed to leave his victims alive, his darker side roared to finish the job.

His darling human wife Alyssa in the 16th century…and beautiful Amalia a hundred years later, the lovely daughter of a wine supplier. There were so many. A killer always, he'd never had enough restraint to sip and sever ties.

"Nick? _Nick_! Red Light!" cried Schanke.

Nick snapped back to the present. They were barreling into a clogged intersection. He slammed on the Caddy's brakes, but the Classic protested with a groan, and the binders locked in defiance. Nick swerved to avoid a transit bus, maneuvering his car sharply to the left. The front edge connected with a concrete barrier, its hood crumpling like an accordion on the driver's side.

* * *

_ The Duchy of Brabant, Western Europe - **1267** _

The pain in Nicholas's chest was unbearable, as a narrow blade passed through, barely missing a lung. It was like fire as if shaped from sunlight. Blood tears rimmed his eyes, but he refused to let them fall and reveal signs of his unnatural nature. The bustle of townspeople and merchants in the marketplace had ceased. All eyes were locked on the young, scraggly figure in a soiled patchwork tunic and torn hosiery who'd unceremoniously stabbed a finely dressed gentleman in a black as night, fur cloak.

"Quel effet cela vous fait-il? (What does it feel like?) My blade was blessed with holy water. Do you know pain, eh demon?" The dirty man pushed his sword further and received a throaty groan. "You _can_ feel that—my heart is glad. Are you terrified? Maybe you will understand what _they_ felt when you came to them each night!" His pastel blue eyes burned with loathing. A crown of light locks gave him the look of an avenging angel.

Nicholas felt his body respond to the damage, attempting to heal. Though it burned madly, the wound was not dire, for steel could not end him. A bigger threat was the scorching hunger that sparked and spread. _Not yet_ , he thought, grappling with it. Quelling lethal instincts took immense effort, but his mortal facade held. It was encouraging. The vampire inside was his murderous master most nights.

As if on cue, his darker side tugged with renewed force. He gritted his teeth with a grunt and bent low. _I cannot harm this one. I will not!_

"Are you dying? Wonderful!" The man laughed joyously, pulling out his weapon. "I know their names. Isabelle Gaudet, Geneviève La Rivière—and now my dearest Madeleine. Those wretched, bloodstained hands of yours pried into her affections! I vowed," he paused, then spat on his shuttering victim and ground out, " _Bête_ (Beast), to avenge those you took for your unholy needs!" He swore a foul string of curses, pulling a wooden cross with a wicked tipped end from his waist belt. "May the Lord strengthen and guide me, as I rid Satan's refuse from the Earth!"

Nicholas averted his eyes reflexively, as his heart throbbed twice in panic. Precious blood pooled in the dirt. His whole body ached at the loss.

* * *

Nick shook off the horrible memory, his body humming with need. He imagined smelling his own blood like so many centuries ago. There was a drumming, human heart nearby. Steeling himself against it, he forced his eyes open.

"Oh man, Nick! Are you okay?" Schanke asked, struggling to move. The seatbelt had locked during the crash, keeping him firmly in his seat. But his partner hadn't fared as well. A nasty gash bled down Nick's face. Schanke's brows creased, as the wound shrunk a quarter in size.

Hunched over, Nick grunted, his head a thumping kettledrum. He'd hit it hard on the steering wheel. Probing his forehead, he felt a large cut. Blood oozed down his right temple. With his vision bouncing, he couldn't focus on something to wipe it.

Suddenly, there was a rap at the passenger-side window. Both detectives turned to see a man with a puffy moustache and an even puffier poodle nested in his arms look into the Caddy. Hastily, Schanke rolled down the handle.

"You alright?" the man said, poking his golf-capped head in. "I've called 911. Somebody's on the way."

As quickly as he'd spoken, a police cruiser wailed into sight. It pulled to the curb and two officers rushed out. An ambulance arrived shortly after in a blaze of flashing lights.

Nick tried to avoid scrutiny with supernatural suggestions, but he couldn't focus with everything on spin cycle. The crash had given his brain a super scramble. And as ruby drops puddled on his car mat, he felt drained. In seconds, paramedics had slapped a neck brace on, transferred him to a spinal board, then a gurney in the back of the ambulance. Schanke was hoisted inside to join him.

As blackness invaded, Nick closed his eyes once more.

* * *

_ Mercy General Hospital, Toronto - **1995** _

"The nurse says he's fine. But the doc is _still_ looking him over. He wants to monitor some _irregularities_ —whatever that means." Schanke huffed on a well-worn, vinyl chair amongst mustard squiggles of wilting wallpaper in the waiting room at Mercy General. "They asked me for a next of kin—to let them know. Does Nick even _have_ relatives?"

Natalie shrugged. "I've, uh, never heard of any." From the scene of the burglary, she'd nearly broken the speed of sound racing over. Adding to a heaping dose of panic was escalating frustration. The staff in the emergency department didn't respect her medical credentials. When she'd asked to see Nick, the triage nurse had curtly informed her there would be no visitors. Nat was left to wring the ties of her overcoat beside Schanke, who'd chewed off the nails on his right hand.

She hated this place ever since her grandmother had withered away in here ten years ago. Mercy Hospital, with its gloomy, condiment coloured corridors and pervasive smell of disinfected death was nauseating beyond measure. Natalie hadn't seen Nana at the end, for the unwelcoming aura at Mercy had chased her away. Feeling trapped and useless, she could only imagine the threat this hospital posed to Nick. It wouldn't take many tests to discover he wasn't human.

As Natalie's thoughts ran wild, Schanke's were not much better. He remembered what the paramedics had said.

_2 hours ago…_

They'd set Schanke down in the ambulance with a heavy wool blanket. He'd noticed his partner on the opposite side, an oxygen mask fastened to his face, open droopy eyes briefly before closing them and going limp.

"He's unconscious, Roy. Respiration's really shallow," a chubby paramedic with a balding babyface uttered to his partner and quickly pressed on Nick's neck then wrist with a couple of fingers. "I can't find a good pulse point," he sighed, annoyed.

Babyface jabbed a thermometer into Nick's armpit, and after a beep, scanned it. "Temp's low at 34 C." Fastening a blood pressure cuff and squeezing, he continued. "Blood pressure is—" the man paused and moved closer, squinting, as his grey-bearded counterpart scribbled outside on a clipboard. Babyface cursed saying, "Dammit! The gauge is not working. His pallor looks really bad. I'm starting fluids for hypovolemia." An IV shunt was plunged into Nick's wrist and fastened to a drip.

"Let me try," said Roy, hopping up. Schanke watched him fastened the cuff on Nick's other arm and speedily inflate it. After a beat, they both frowned. "See, junk," Babyface huffed. "He'd be dead if that thing was right. It's freaky Friday, man. Wiped all that blood off but couldn't find a wound, and now it seems internal. We gotta move!"

* * *

_ Present-day, Mercy General Hospital, Toronto - **1995** _

"Stop staring at me," Nick growled at Schanke, as they exited the hospital with Natalie. "I'm fine. No cuts, no bruises, just sore muscles and a headache." Nick rubbed the back of his head for effect. He felt okay, but Natalie had coached him on keeping up appearances while his partner had been off in the bathroom. Nick's body ached, but for a different reason. Glad to be rid of this place, he looked forward to the liquid comforts of his loft.

Without blood, his thoughts had taken forever to clear. Eventually, Nick had pieced together what was happening. Using the last of his energy, he'd convinced the doctor everything was fine. In a weakened state, he wasn't sure a decent mind whammy was possible but thankfully it had worked. His body begged for sustenance in return.

"Okay, okay—just concerned. You didn't look so good before," Schanke replied. _No cuts, no bruises,_ his mind re-tread.

"Sorry, Schank," apologized Nick. Famished as he was, it was still no excuse to be rude. "I don't remember a thing after hitting on the brakes," he admitted.

Schanke patted his shoulder. "It's fine. Myra sends her best. She couldn't stay long with the kid," he explained. _No cuts, no bruises_ , his mind hiccupped again. Massaging his melon, he sighed. It had been a crazy night. Thinking straight anymore was a challenge. Forcing all irrelevant thoughts away, he brought out a bottle from his pocket and gave it a shake, saying, "They give you some of the good stuff I got?"

Nick snickered and nodded, glad that Schanke was in good humour about it all.

"Well my boys," Natalie chimed in, "your chariot awaits," gesturing to her car with a Vanna White sweep of her arms.

* * *

_ The Duchy of Brabant, Western Europe, **1267** _

"Your horse will await you comfortably. I will tend to him myself," the stable boy assured the newcomer. Nicholas handed the reins of _Tonnerre_ (Thunder) to him. The youth gently stroked the white stallion's velvety nose, and the animal responded with a nudge for more. Nicholas chuckled. He knew he'd left his friend in good care.

Leuven, in Brabant, was ever the bustling place Nicholas remembered it to be. As a boy, he'd accompanied his father, Guillaume, Lord of Perwez, on family business with the duke, Henri, Nicholas's uncle. This walled city had stood proud through countless battles. It was a keystone of the Duchy, one of the main centres to which many had fled after civil feuds had laid waste to the land. They'd found security within its solid fortifications. In his new life, Nicholas needed only a few words to open its locked iron gates. He recalled the last time he'd passed through before joining a crusade to Jerusalem. Henri had looked upon his blood proudly for taking up the family's sacred cause. Guillaume de Brabant had given his life fighting in Jaffa.

Nicholas strode through the well-trod, muddy streets, reminiscing until he reached the destination research had directed him to. André, his nephew, had a very modest place in the slums. The stone shack, with its moss-covered roof, was certainly nothing befitting the boy's heritage. Still, it glowed with soft, inviting candlelight. The chevalier wanted to knock at its rusty door but stood instead in darkness metres away. Doubt held him back, even as he yearned to see the last trace of his beloved sister. He'd not seen his nephew in two decades. The terror in the boy's eyes during their last encounter was burned into his brain. Could André forgive and accept him? It shouldn't have mattered much in Nicholas's new incarnation, but it did.

André had been twelve when his mother Fleur, had passed. At the tender age of two and twenty, she'd married one of the duke's army captains and wrote her brother often of her humdrum existence as an army wife. Her husband had had long absences while Andre was a youngster, most of them followed by dinner parties with officials that lasted even longer. Then, not five years later, the man had died on a hunting trip, his horse bolting and throwing him, breaking his neck. Not long after, Fleur became grievously ill.

She'd seen Nicholas's vampire condition in the past, shocked by his gold-green eyes of flame. But her kind heart had melted the initial fear. Along with insatiable curiosity, Fleur's greatest strength had been a certainty in the goodness of all things. Heart heavy, Nicholas had made her forget. Even though she accepted him, he wasn't able to leave his sister with this memory.

Lacroix had expressed an eagerness to take her as a companion. It would have been a dark life with an even darker general. So, Nicholas struck a bargain never to love a mortal, a sacrifice to keep the glorious glow in his sister's soul. After cleansing her mind, he had ordered Fleur to sleep and left speedily but still corresponded, as if he was the same brother she'd known as a child. In the latter years, when she was dying, a request had come to care for her son. Nicholas had agreed, with terrible results.

As he stood in shadows beside André's home, the vampire remarked how this boy had changed him. When the lad had caught him feeding on peasant women in the cellar of the Perwez estate, he'd been ashamed. Gradually the shame had festered to terrible guilt; guilt that threatened to swallow Nicholas whole at times. He enjoyed his new existence, but feedings were no longer rapturous.

 _Why am I here? What can come of this?_ thought Nicholas. If he knew, Lacroix would chastise him on the folly of holding onto the dead. _But the dead is all I have to hold onto anymore_. His morose ponderings were interrupted by the noisy footsteps of a small girl with a mountain of curls racing down the street.

Madeleine looked back to see if Roland was behind. No one was there. She'd outrun that fiend! That bully thought he'd had her, but stomping on his meaty foot, she'd slipped from his grasp. The girl slowed her run to a walk, still puffing, and brushed the muck from her tattered dress. Best not to let papa see the evidence of a tussle. He'd be upset at her lateness and the loss of her flute.

He didn't need another reason to go on about evils in the dark. A flower or two from the convent garden might soften him up. Did she have time? Surely the nuns would allow her to pick some if she prayed in the morning. Madeleine looked around to see if anyone was about. Something glinted ahead. A russet leather boot with a shiny silver buckle came out of the shadows, followed by a man.

The girl gathered her courage. There was no such thing as monsters moving around by night. Papa was silly. Raising her chin, Madeleine stared down the fancy-booted stranger. "Qui êtes-vous?" (Who are you?) she demanded, trying to keep her knees from noticeably knocking before glancing at her home.

Nicholas smiled. He crouched low, while this little one stood her ground. _She can't be more than eight,_ he thought. Looking into her powder blue eyes Nicholas said, "Personne d'importante, fillette (No one, important, little girl). Is that your father I heard inside? He is concerned for you."

Madeleine's brows knit in annoyance and embarrassment. She chewed her lip, then spouted, "I'm late. Papa worries needlessly." Taking in the stranger's wavy hair, a golden halo so similar to father, her nerves melted some, and she blurted, "My flute was stolen! It's precious to me—th-the only thing I have of grand-maman." Tears welled and spilled. "I tried to get it back, but I could not!" she sniffled.

Nicholas was immediately ensorcelled by this teensy honey-haired one. He tucked back a straying flaxen spiral and wiped her wet, freckled cheek. There was no doubt this was André's child. She shared his facial features down to the eyelashes. And, her burst of emotion was so like her grandmother. Fleur had had floods of tears the time she'd misplaced her beloved flute.

The flute! Nicholas had had it carved as a tenth birthday gift, her first instrument. She'd learned every melody she could, then created her own. "Who took it?" he asked.

"Ro— ", she began.

"Madeleine! Que fais-tu?" (What are you doing) a shrill voice cut in.

They turned toward a plump, aproned woman with mahogany curls twirling around her shoulders standing in the doorway cradling a fussy babe.

Madeleine was the first to speak. "Maman, I was on my way. I just stopped to help this monsieur—he's lost," she fibbed, kicking the dirt.

"You are never to talk to strangers, especially at this hour! Come in at once!" The woman's bellow left no room for argument, as she stomped over and, with her free hand, dragged the child home by the ear, issuing a curt, " _Bonsoir_ (Goodnight)," to Nicholas before rushing in.

He wished her likewise, then watched their decrepit door close with a slam.

* * *

_ Gateway Lane, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick sat at his piano and played. The name of the melody was gone— _Un Rayon Doré de la Lune_ (Golden Moonbeam) or something. Fleur had had such fanciful titles for her tunes. He could visualize her in _maman's_ garden, amongst sunset orange poppies, caressing each note.

Several bottles of red had him up to snuff in a day. Mostly cow, but some was human—one of the get-well gifts for a speedy recovery from Janette. Nick had initially pushed it aside and continued with his bovine brew, but gradually found reasons for a nip or three. Particularly, it filled a void that had crept up during his waking hours and throughout restless, indecipherable dreams. Nick had wanted to return to duty quickly to get his mind off of it, but Natalie had convinced him to lie low.

He'd strayed only once from the loft to pick up a new cell. His thoughts rested on the last few weeks, specifically Nat—and her essence, warm and running through his veins. Nick hadn't had fresh blood from the source in ages, having forgotten how soothing it could be. And Natalie was seemingly the ultimate balm. She'd passed some of the interminable week with him, for which Nick was appreciative. But he wasn't unsure she was as enthused to hang out.

_One week earlier…_

"Thanks for this, Nat—without you, I'd only have my paints to talk to," Nick told her, sitting in front of a roaring fire marvelling that it was this chilly in early Fall. At least, she had complained it was. He didn't feel cold so much but certainly could feel heat. Flames cast bronze tones and radiated warmth throughout the loft. Nick had just finished explaining his connection to Michel Galois. In his lap was a photo book from his first trip to Toronto after fleeing Montreal.

"No problem. Happy to keep my number one vamp detective company in his time of boredom." Natalie smirked, huddled under her favourite fuzzy blanket in an armchair.

"It was a stopover while my American identity was being prepared," Nick explained. "The new subway down Yonge was something I _had_ to experience. After the second world war, businesses were popping up along this first track. Hard to imagine, but there was nary a skyscraper. The city was exploding with prosperity, new money and investments in a big future. The energy, the optimism and excitement—it called to me. I knew I'd be back."

Natalie mumbled something that sounded positive. When Nick pointed out a detail in his album, she barely noticed, focusing dazedly on the decorative stone dragon that curled down the fireplace. "You okay?" he asked, scooting close. "Nat?"

At the sound of her name, she came back to the moment with a jump. "What?" she said, blinking at him.

Nick ticked his head at her. "That's the third time you've zoned out. Something's on your mind. Care to share?"

"What? No," snorted Nat, slapping his leg lightly. "I'm fine. I-I'm just really in love with this popcorn—and your story." Shoving a heaping handful of kernels in her mouth from a glass bowl, she added "Perfect amount of butter. You're getting better," giving a thumbs up with full cheeks. After swallowing, Natalie continued, "1954, you were in TO? Wasn't that what you said? The same year Nana arrived here with my mom. They took one of the first rides on the subway. Who knows, maybe you were there?"

"Maybe I was," Nick said, still worried about her...

The phone rang, pulling Nick away from his memories. He picked it up. "Yeah, Knight," he said.

"Nick! How's it going?" asked Schanke on the other end.

"Hey. I'm fine. And you?" Nick answered politely, not sure he wanted to know. "Still popping industrial-strength painkillers?" he added. During their last call, his partner had complained about every muscle he'd yanked during the accident.

"I'm clean and free…and back at work. I called because we may have an interesting addition to the burglary shooting."

"What? Why're you on that case? I thought Greenwood and Wright had that one now."

"Uh-huh, well, they closed it. According to their report," Nick could hear a rustle of papers, "64-year-old Fredric Andersen shot 24-year-old Edward McCreed during a home invasion. Diedre, the wife, said McCreed forced the door open when she answered it."

Nick heard the suction sound of a straw reaching for the last drops of a beverage. "And?" he pushed.

"He shoved her down and demanded money—said he had a gun. Andersen heard her scream, got his weapon and killed the guy. Nat's autopsy backs it up. The perp had a headshot from a 22' fired from a couple metres. Anderson surrendered a Remington that matched to police along with the registration."

"Sounds like there's nothing left, Schank," replied Nick. "Self-defense under provocation. He defended his wife from a hostile intruder."

"Yeah, that's what Greenwood and Wright wrote, but there was nothing on the kid."

"He was bluffing. Anderson had the right to retaliate. He thought his wife's life was on the line, gun or no gun. No judge would think otherwise."

"Likely. But there might be more. I got a call from McCreed's buddy. He says he was with him—but," Schanke paused, fiddling with a crinkly wrapper, then continued with a mouthful of something, "he wants to talk to you."

* * *

_ The 96th Police Precinct, Toronto - **1995** _

The reception desk at the precinct was bursting with belligerence and the bizarre as Nick passed by. Civilians gnashed their teeth at each other after high-heeled assaults at a shoe blowout, another clucked calamitously of prized pug thievery. Uniforms busily scratched down prelims, while further down the hall, other blues led cuffed and cursing crooks to lock up.

Past the kerfuffle, Nick observed Schanke moaning at the Everest-like paper mountain in his in-box. Sitting down, he noticed his own K2 of catch-up and scowled.

"Welcome to paradise!" chortled Schanke, tipping forward then whispering, "I talked to Cohen. She agreed to let us meet the kid—and did a happy dance when I said we were together on this."

"Cohen did a happy dance?" Nick was astonished.

"Yup, her second mega mocha had kicked in by then. I've discovered the Capt's mood rises and falls with her caffeine intake. A little is good, too much is very bad. So, I keep count. Do _not_ approach before two cups, and _never_ come within ten feet after five."

"Interesting. Let's meet this guy, but discreetly," answered Nick. "I mean, it's one thing to reopen a case we've closed, but it's another when Greenwood and Wright covered for us. Could look like we're checking up." Nick recognized the case file at the summit of his pile and thumbed through the contents.

"I know. The witness calls himself Jazz, short for Jaswinder Palmar. He knew McCreed from the police academy. They were in training together, Nick!" Schanke shook his head. "What's this world coming to? I got a number." He pulled it from a sticky pad and stuck the fluorescent pink paper square on his teammate's blotter.

"How'd he get my name?" asked Nick, still nose down in the case file.

"I have no idea, Nick—I got my name in the paper last week for saving my partner—Knight," Schanke droned sarcastically.

"Great." Nick frowned. More than one news outlet had reported that he'd faced down and stabbed the "Killer Stalker of Toronto" with a piece of broom handle before he could kill Schanke. It was the best story he and Nat could come up with in a hurry; unfortunately, the press had seized on it. Nick hoped no one important had noticed. Lacroix had assured him the Enforcers were taken care of.

The watchdogs had left satisfied after roasting Galois's body to ash. Shockingly, they'd turned a blind eye to Natalie for her cover-up efforts as well. But there had been conditions to their understanding. All of her research had to be handed over. And Nick was given a clear order: _stop trying to go back or else_. Eternally stubborn, he half-listened to the threat.

"Helloo-oo? Where'd you go this time? Nunavut or Neptune? Hope you collect frequent flyer points—cheaper," called Schanke, waving his hands back and forth in front of his partner.

Nick blinked. "Sorry, thinking about the case," he muttered.

Schanke's eyebrows narrowed. He knew his partner's "sailing-around-the-stratosphere-leave-a-message" expression too well. "Uh-huh. And I wear reindeer pyjamas."

"You do. I've seen them. I'll call and arrange a meeting."

"They're moose and you know it," bickered Schanke. "No need to call," he said, pointing to the flickering light on Nick's desk phone. "Line three."

* * *

_ Jive n' Java Café, Toronto - **1995** _

Schanke halted his rusty, beige tank of a Buick with a grinding brake shoe squeal, shuffled out, then crossed the street to the meeting place, a café on Spadina, with Nick a few paces behind. He was shocked they'd taken his car and relished being in the captain's seat. Nick always insisted on driving. _How much longer till that old Cadillac gets repaired? Bet it costs a pretty penny_ , thought Schanke. He'd totalled the car accidentally once before on a case.

Nick had paid a hefty sum back then. He'd also rejected Schanke's offer to foot the bill when the insurance company balked, arguing that on a cop's salary there was barely enough to cover a family, much less car repairs. It was true—and the reason for the brown squeaking scrapheap. _Nick's one of the good guys,_ he reminded himself. _I can't believe I thought he was a monster._ Not too long ago, Schanke had looked up Nick's past, convinced there was something sinister about the guy. A local DJ called the Nightcrawler, a personal friend of Nick's, had brought him to his senses.

He chuckled at the absurdity, then pulled open the shop entrance to a tinkle of bells. Time warping back to the 50s, Schanke took in toothpaste green walls, a black and white checkered floor, as well as chrome-trimmed, cherry leather booths and an eating bar. A blinking jukebox spattered pink and blue light randomly and crooned an Elvis tune. Equally bright and colourfully sprinkled was the pastry display at the service counter, calling him forth. "Go ahead, find Palmar. I'll catch up," he murmured to his partner.

 _There're better places to meet a witness_ , Nick thought behind him. It seemed like Schanke's ideal spot, however. The man had been ensnared by the smell of piping hot desserts. Nick wondered how long he'd been on the phone before passing it over.

There were very few people inside at this hour. A couple of patrons sipped steaming mugs and munched white powdery treats nearby. A clean-cut, twenty-something with rich, tan features and a dark, short cut waved his hands heartily to the left. Nick cringed. He was used to his anonymity, for it had always protected him. Sighing, he approached. "Jazz, I assume?" Nick said, plastering on a pleasant expression and offering his palm.

Palmar grinned and shook it with gusto. "Detective Knight," he said, then gushed, "I read about you in the paper. That was a brave thing, rescuing your partner like that."

Nick smiled weakly and sat down opposite. "You knew Edward McCreed?"

Palmar nodded. "Ed was a great guy, who couldn't have done what they said he did. He wanted to be a cop to help people."

Schanke appeared with a smoking coffee and a half dozen donuts. "A double-double for your toil and trouble?" guessed Nick. He'd been riding with his partner long enough to learn that was some sort of coffee.

Schanke smiled, "You bet. Now, out of my damned spot. Out, I say," he told him, then produced two other steamy drinks from a tray. "Nectar of the gods, anyone?" he asked. "I left yours black, Nick. I didn't know what you liked."

"It's fine. Thanks," Nick told him, sliding over and putting it down. "This is my partner Don Schanke. Don't mind him."

"Thanks, Mr. Schanke. I'll just take the coffee," the young man said appreciatively. And, after a sip, he continued, "I met Ed at the academy. He was from Calgary. I'm from Whitehorse. We didn't know Toronto, so we had that in common."

"You were with him that night, right?" said Nick.

"Yeah. We were headed downtown to a club when he said he had to stop at Andersen's."

"Why'd he want to go there?"

"The guy owed him money and he'd stopped answering his phone," explained Palmar.

"Money for what?" Schanke chimed in.

"I dunno, I tried to ask, but Ed was upset—didn't want to talk about it," Palmar's brown eyes fell. "After everything, I guess I should have pushed it," he said remorsefully.

"What happened?" said Nick.

Palmar looked up with a sniff. "He went to the door, while I stayed in the car. An old guy opened it—Andersen I'm pretty sure, cause Ed recognized him and started yelling." Palmar shredded the napkin in his hands into therapeutic confetti then grabbed another. "He said he wanted what was his. The guy let him in, and they got into a major shouting match."

"What'd they say?" asked Schanke.

Palmar shrugged. "They were screaming at each other. I couldn't hear a thing. I'd had enough. I yelled too—that I was leaving. I didn't want trouble. But Ed didn't budge. Don't think they even noticed me. The door closed, so," Palmar hesitated, crinkling the napkin into a ball, then confessed quietly, "I _left_." He sniffed again and used it to blot his eyes.

"Did you notice anyone else?" queried Nick.

"No."

"No one besides Andersen answered the door?" said Schanke.

Palmar shook his head. "Just him."

The detectives shared a look.

* * *

_ The 96th Police Precinct, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick was dropped off at the shop for phone records, while Schanke went to the police academy. _I miss my Caddy,_ Nick thought wistfully. His partner had taken the wheel on this case, literally and figuratively. But, with an unwanted spotlight on him recently, he didn't mind.

Hours of Bell boredom ensued before the vampire yawned widely and gave up. _Time to clock out_ , he noticed, peering out of a window, then slipped on sunglasses and fished for his repair-shop loaner key as he left.

Despite an ever-lightening sky, he halted in the parking lot and shuddered. A pretty violet coloured Geo grinned back with its happy mouth of a hood and cartoonish big, oval headlights.

Nick grimaced and got in, cramped and cranky even after adjusting his seat. Growling low, he turned the key. The engine hummed to life with a perky purr, promising a cheery, economical ride. Pulling up the wide hood of his duster so as not to be noticed, Nick slinked onto the street, snapping on the radio.

"I see such a hunger for possessions these days, and I wonder—has anything changed? In times past, the wealthy clashed in useless games of chess. Of their pawns, few were left standing. To the winner went the spoils of victory. But, just as quickly, others would rise up to rip them away. The countryside was razed and torn. People died in the masses. And, for what—land, shiny gold or silver? No one can possess something forever. Someone will always be around to take it."

* * *

_ The Raven Nightclub, Toronto - **1995** _

"Can I interest you in quiet conversation?" Lacroix said as he came up from behind his son. Nicholas nodded without protest, and his master understood. There had been an emptiness in the boy following the erasure of the doctor. But now Lacroix felt a calm. Nicholas was numbing his troubles by dabbling with human vintages. That was something to be encouraged. Lacroix gestured to a bald, bustier-clad waitress with feline swooshes of onyx eyeliner for a drink, and she poured one promptly. He offered it over.

Nick accepted the sanguine cocktail and took a tentative swig. The Raven was always jam-packed on Saturdays, tonight being no exception. He'd hoped to see Janette, but she wasn't around. Disappointed, he trailed his master instead through a curtain of heavy chains into the nightclub's inner chambers.

Settling in the VIP room on a circular couch of round maroon cushions, he leaned back and crossed his legs, as Lacroix did the same. "I heard you talking of possessions tonight. You have many things. What is it you don't possess? I wonder," he prodded with a sly smile, then tugged the tiger's tail mightily stating, "Who dared to take anything from you?"

"There was one who took away the greatest love I've ever known," Lacroix shot back.

Nicholas upended his drink and made a face. "She wasn't yours. Fleur was her own person long before you."

* * *

_ The Duchy of Brabant, Western Europe - **1267** _

Nicholas observed Madeleine move around the marketplace after dark against her mother's wishes. Looking for her flute, she whizzed past a textile dealer, causing cloth of vivid striped hues to flutter and flap like busy butterflies. She and Nicholas both laughed. The seller was less amused and yipped tersely at her. But just like her grandmother, Madeleine was her own person who twirled to her own beat. Nicholas kept a watchful eye on the girl. Not too close, though. A bitter, sickly odour stung his nostrils whenever he drew near. He attributed it to the strange pouch laced about her neck.

Across the street, Madeleine stopped to stare at a caged chicken flapping in a desperate frenzy, upset creasing her brow. Nicholas knew what Fleur would do, and he wasn't surprised when the girl checked for onlookers then wiggled the latch that held the bird. The cage fell open and a spray of feathers rushed out. The chicken half flew, half jumped around. Some boys thought its crazed dance was an excellent game and gave chase. It darted down an alleyway with several youths in pursuit.

An elderly farmer picked Madeleine up by the collar. He swore as he bore into her with baggy, cataract clouded eyes. She thrashed in his grip, terrified before he released her to land hard on her rump. "Je vais te gifler au bord des larmes pour la perte de cette poule! (I'll slap you until you cry for the loss of that hen)." His beer belly thrust forward as he bent down, the man's flappy, wrinkled face centimetres away.

"Laissez l'enfant tranquille! (Leave the child alone)," shouted Nicholas, closing the distance between them. He could hear the farmer's heart pounding in anger, causing his beast to pace hungrily below the surface.

The big man's eyes narrowed at the sound of crisp, refined French. "Who are you?" he grunted.

"No one of importance," said Nicholas, his voice reverberating and mesmerizing. "I will pay for the bird. Let the child go."

The farmer was bespelled, his bristled maw drooping. "No one important," he repeated. But just as quickly, he came back to himself, rubbing his head then sneering. " _Non!_ This one needs to pay for her deeds. She has done this before!" he cried.

"Let this go," Nicholas told him in low, rougher tones, his eyes flashing with an inner light, "or you will deal with me."

"Sir N-Nicholas!" sputtered the man, pointing a shaking, stubby finger, his expression turning to fright. "I-I knew I had seen you before. Lord Guillaume's son! The one that turned away from God!" He made the sign of the cross and scanned for his axe. All around, the townsfolk chattered in alarm.

Nicholas hissed softly, retreating. Madeleine rushed to him, and he put a protective arm around her. His infamy had apparently preceded him. After the disaster caring for Andre decades ago, he'd left only bodies behind—and his stunned nephew.

He picked up his grand-niece and fled the square.

"You're thinking of Fleur as well," said Lacroix, picking up his son's faraway eyes more than his thoughts.

Nick smiled sadly and declared honestly, "Yes—and no. She's been on my mind, but I was thinking more of André."

"Let him go. Our blood runs thicker and deeper," said Lacroix. Of course, he knew far more about that boy than he would ever tell. When his son had failed as a ward, he'd picked up the pieces, saving Nicholas's ranting nephew from a harsh exorcism ordered by the duke, then taking him to the foundling home of a sheep farmer and his wife. They'd adopted several children and seemed a joyful couple.

Nicholas would have tried perilously to rectify things with Andre, so Lacroix had ordered him away. As the master vampire looked at his son, his face held no hint of anything.

* * *

_ Coroner's Building, Toronto - **1995** _

"The report _is_ open to interpretation. The guy admitted to shooting McCreed, and his rifle matched the bullet impressions. Whether he did it in defence of the wife or not—that's not my department. I only indicated in my report that the vic's wound was consistent with Andersen's account," said Natalie from her stance over a heart-attack victim. She'd finished this exam and was pulling a linen sheet over top.

"Uh-huh. Did you get them?" asked Nick about the daisies he'd sent her yesterday.

"Yes, I did, thank you. They're lovely, just like the ones in my grandmother's garden. You were listening to my stories, I see. You know, you don't have to send me flowers—again. I was happy to keep you company last week." Natalie gave him a little grin, as she heaved open the heavy freezer door.

He noted it lacked sincerity. "You sure? I enjoyed hearing about your childhood. Took my mind off things. But you seemed a little…distracted." He held the door as she pushed her patient in. "Anything you wanna talk about? Is it that guy, uh, Steve? We could cancel our get together tomorrow if you prefer?" They'd postponed their dancing plans already after the accident, but he was fine with another raincheck if it made her feel better. Seeing Nat troubled was upsetting to him as well.

"No-no," dodged Natalie. "It's definitely _not_ Steve. I'm fine actually, j-just extremely busy. This case…and, ah, all the drive-bys in Oakwood-Vaughan. Don't look in the freezer. It's stacked." Natalie shut the door and pulled the handle down firmly to secure it. She took a seat at her desk, exhausted. "But there _is_ something, Nick," Nat said, wiping her brow. There were, in fact, several things she wanted to discuss about the night at the warehouse but couldn't expose her secret knowledge—or feelings.

It was like dancing solo to a duet. Natalie hoped he still loved her somewhere inside. She loved him always. But at the same time, the tenacious drive for death that was part of his nature as a vampire had shaken her deeply. There was no future together unless the beast inside was slain. Until then, Nick couldn't know the truth.

At his loft, she'd talked about growing up with her brother Ritchie, Nana—and the brief time with her mother. Nick had been receptive, even holding her hand for the toughest memories. But when she'd poked into his past, he'd said little beyond historical anecdotes. Natalie knew he had tremendous remorse, and she wanted to ease it. Even more, she needed to rationalize his vampiric desires with scientific objectivity and not a fearful, human heart. "I've told you things about my family that I've never shared with anyone. But you haven't told me about yours."

Nick's eyes darted, never having talked of his human life and how he'd obliterated all familial ties in his fledgling years. He doubted he could. Over the centuries, he had revealed pieces of himself to mortals only to be looked upon as a devil. If she knew more about him, she'd learn the truth: he was a disgusting creature in a mortal disguise.

Now and always.

* * *

_ The Duchy of Brabant, Western Europe - **1267** _

"Let me down!" yelled Madeleine, struggling against the iron grip of the blond stranger. She had seen him skirting the market a few times, never purchasing anything. He'd protected her from the farmer. Now, this man held her tight, as they rushed through the night at a dizzying speed that had her feeling ill.

Nicholas obliged, stopping near André's home and listening for the sound of humans nearby. There was nothing, save the swiftly tapping heart of his grand-niece. He put her down. But before sending her on her way Nicholas crouched, snapped off the offensive necklace and tossed it, having had quite enough of that putrid item.

Madeleine eyed him peculiarly. "Why did you do that?" she asked, not particularly fond of the stinky necklace, but her mother would be upset that it was broken. "Maman, gave that to me."

"I am sorry, but it is awful to see such an ugly thing on such a lovely girl," Nicholas answered sweetly.

Madeleine's face reddened with the compliment. She liked this odd one. "Who are you?" she ventured.

"It is not important. But I knew your grandmother."

Madeleine nodded sunnily, and Nicholas saw a glimmer of her grandmother's grace. She accepted him, even after what had transpired in the square.

"You are a little flower, aren't you?" he said, kneeling down and tapping her button nose. "Go to your parents now. Do not worry them by being home at a late hour. And—please do not speak of me," Nicholas told her sternly.

"D'accord," (okay) replied the girl.

Then, she did something miraculous...bending forward and kissing him, the previously glowing-eye demon of the market square, on the cheek.

Nicholas was shocked. Exhaling audibly, he watched her turn and head for home.

It was time to leave.

A reconciliation with André would never happen. The pouch of sickening ingredients and the peasant's recognition of him had convinced him as much. Nicholas's visit hadn't been entirely in vain, however. He'd encountered Fleur's sprite of a granddaughter. That brought him joy.

There was one thing left to do.

"Madeleine!" he called after the little one's bouncing bright head of curls.

She stopped, looking back.

"Who took the flute?" he asked.

* * *

"I can't, Nat," said Nick, coming back from his memories of Brabant. Natalie nodded but looked disappointed. She'd shared so much, and he owed her more, but guilt robbed his voice. Instead, he muttered, "I have to go," and walked out.


	6. Chapter 6

_ The 96th Precinct, Toronto - **1995** _

"Howdy," Schanke said, leaning over his partner's desk, beaming. "I think I got something that backs up Palmar."

"Yeah? Hit me with it," Nick told him. He'd been plodding once more through reams of phone records. Any distraction was welcome.

"Well, I went to the academy last night. It was closed. But I caught an instructor on his way home who said McCreed was an excellent student. He liked him. So," Schanke paused for effect.

"So?" Nick asked tiredly.

"I went back this morning and talked to Wanda. She's this cute Admission's clerk—brunette with big brown eyes and amazing lips." Schanke whistled. "Dated a doll of a girl named Doris just like her in '82. Legs for miles…"

"Get to the point," Nick cut in sharply.

"Fine," said Schanke, dropping down in his chair. "Some people don't appreciate a good story."

"Your tales are epic, as in they take all night."

"Not quite. If you'd just hear me out this one's full of…"

"Schanke," Nick warned. "Don't get distracted."

"Says the proverbial pot to the kettle," mumbled Schanke. At an irked look from his partner, he held up his hands in mock surrender and said, " _Okay_. McCreed was about to be kicked out. His tuition was months overdue."

"That'd give him a reason to collect old debts," said Nick, scanning the cell info spread across his blotter. "I found something too. It took a lot of digging. Had to look into McCreed's cell logs ad nauseum." Nick raked through piles of similar-looking sheets, grumbling, unable to find the right one.

"Tiring of the paper trail, are we? You stick me with that stuff more often than not," Schanke snickered.

Nick wanted to hiss at him; he rolled his eyes instead. Finally locating the pertinent page, "Here," he said, indicating his pink highlighted efforts. "I found Andersen's number more than once."

"How many times they talk?" Schanke asked, taking a peek.

"Seven, but only once in the last three weeks...last Tuesday afternoon."

"Ol' Fred must've had something interesting to say...seeing as McCreed showed up on his doorstep that night."

Nick nodded. "Yeah. I think we've got enough to talk to Andersen, don't you?"

* * *

Avoiding other investigator's toes had been a week-long challenge for Nick and Schanke. Everyone in the precinct worked hard to clean up Toronto. But an unhappy Fredric Andersen being led in for additional questioning was a beacon to all that something was up. Wright, who was solo tonight, glared at the other detectives. They ignored him and guided Andersen to interrogation room two.

Closing the door, Nick showed the man to a seat. Anderson was slickly silver-haired with a neatly trimmed matching beard. He stared at them acerbically, fingers drumming on the scuffed rectangular table in the middle of the tight space.

"Mr. Andersen. I'm detective Knight, and this is Detective Schanke," said Nick, taking a chair across from him, while his partner stood. "Thanks for meeting with us."

The man's mouth screwed into a swift sneer, then he growled, "Meeting you? You mean I had a _choice_ when two officers swarmed my conference room full of clients and asked me _nicely_ to come with them?"

Nick ignored the nasty tone and continued, "We're unclear about some information in your statement. Had you ever met Edward McCreed before he came to your home?"

"I was pulled away…to _repeat_ my testimony?!" he said, incredulous. "I thought you'd have more to say about the delinquent who stormed into my house and scared the living daylights out of us! I told the first detectives everything already. No," he huffed, twitching impatiently like a miffed mountain lion.

"Ever speak to him on the phone?" asked Schanke.

Andersen adjusted his upmarket suit jacket and measured him elevator-style, making silently sour judgements feet to face. Dismissing the man with a lifted chin, he perused Nick chillily, trying to measure what his angle might be.

"Ever take a phone call from Mr. McCreed?" pushed Nick, undaunted.

"A few times," Andersen said after a beat. "He asked me for a job—wanted to work nights. I'm in the recruitment business. I help companies fill positions." He pulled a wallet out of his well-pressed, chocolate dress pants and produced a gold business card.

"Do clients usually come to your residence?" Nick inquired.

"No, I've got an office downtown. I don't know how he got my home address. I never give it out. Must have done a web search."

"An internet search? Alright," said Nick, unconvinced. "But, just to clarify, you _did_ know McCreed—through your business."

"Yes. But I never met the kid in person," Andersen replied. He pointed towards the door. "Like I said to your buddies already."

"But seem to have _omitted_ that you'd talked before the incident…on the phone or otherwise," stated Schanke, producing a thick stack of testimony. "This is from _our buddies_ —and that isn't anywhere in here. Did you accept money for an employment hunt from McCreed?"

"No, it's the companies that pay me, not the job seekers. And I didn't want anything to do with that punk! I find candidates for investment firms, big banks. He kept calling me, desperate—but he had no skills. I could never find him something for any kind of coin. He couldn't accept that _sandwich artist_ was pretty much his only choice, so he forced his way into our house out of spite. When he told my wife he'd shoot her, I had no option!"

"Spite? Didn't you say it was for cash?" Schanke ran his thumb over the testimony with a ticking sound, pretending to find the page.

"Both," Anderson clarified.

"Whoa, I don't recall reading that? You?" said Nick to Schanke, who shook his head. "To be _absolutely_ clear—let's start from the beginning. Okay, McCreed knocks around 10 pm last Tuesday and who answers the door?"

"Diedre, my wife," the man grumbled.

"Your wife?" repeated Schanke.

"Yes, my wife. Are we going to dance around in circles all night? This is a waste of time."

"Where were you when Diedre answered the door?" said Nick.

"In the den. Look, my lawyers can spell self-defence for you if it was— _omitted,"_ barked Andersen, emphasizing the last word in air quotations _._ "This is the last thing I'll say without them. That idiot wanted money. Diedre was in the way. We are the victims, here! Not the criminals! Are you even listening? My wife is traumatized."

"I'm sorry to hear that. And trust me, we're listening. We're just not sure we have the correct version of events. The exclusion of important details could be construed as lying, Mr. Anderson," Nick told him.

"And obstruction," added Schanke

"Are you threatening me? I'll sue your piss-paid asses!" the man shouted with a shower of spittle, then slammed his fist on the table, growling, "You've got no grounds to detain me. I want to leave _now!_ "

The hostility didn't impress Nick. He could tell that Schanke wasn't moved either. But they'd have to let this guy loose with no solid evidence to indicate foul play. Even though they could lawfully do a 24-hour hold on the squirmy weasel, it would do nothing to further the case. "This is just a conversation. You're free to go," he said.

"Some frigging conversation." Andersen's mouth curled nastily, ready to devour public servants before Nick asked some uniforms to show him out. He rumbled about legal action all the way to the station's exit.

Nick returned to the room and closed the door, whistling low. "Wow, that was something."

"Protest much?" declared Schanke, tossing the testimony on the table. "Pavarotti could fit through the holes in his story."

Nick smirked. His partner had an opera obsession that just didn't go with his semi-macho veneer. "It's a smokescreen—threatening lawsuits."

"Yup. Mr. Chuckles is colonoscopy-level amusing."

"There's no way McCreed could've done an internet search on Andersen. Thank goodness for those boring old phone records."

"Why?"

"His number and address are unlisted," Nick told him.

* * *

_ Gateway Lane, Toronto - **1995** _

"So, you've got two versions of the same story. What're you thinking?" Natalie asked, pouring hot liquid from an old brown teapot. She'd searched hard for it. The Loft had a barebone kitchen with a tiny L-shaped countertop, spartan plank overhead shelving, few lower cupboards and lucky-if-you-find-enough dishware.

Nick sat adjacent at his dining table. "Andersen's playing fast and loose with the facts and withholding info, but I don't know why," he said.

The table was set for a feast with three kinds of veggies, roasted chicken and more deli delights. When he'd dialled Nat this morning, she hadn't been keen on dancing anymore but expressed an interest in dinner at his place. She'd told him to keep it simple—potato salad or whatever. He'd had a delicatessen clerk identify the side-dish. It was a whiteish-yellow, gelatinous concoction. Nick was proud of his food shopping skills, even if the potato salad did not look edible to him.

"Let's see if this'll warm you up," Nat said, sitting beside him and offering a _Police, don't shoot! I'm not ready for my closeup!_ mug with a photo of Nick that his partner had spontaneously snapped. It was a gift from Schanke. She smirked as her dinner date made a disgruntled face similar to the one on the cup. "Be brave, drink up," she urged.

"I had a coffee yesterday. Schanke bought it for me," he dodged.

"Did you now? Did you try it?"

"Not a drop," confessed Nick. "By the way, I know a double-double is some sort of fancy coffee. What's in it?

"Two sugar, two cream. Yeesh. You call yourself Canadian? Come on, what's a little Earl Grey? We've been through this before, seems to me. Really Nick, yours is more water than tea."

"I could tell you _all_ about Earl Grey. He was an excellent politician. I don't want water either," he said, staring longingly at the fridge.

"Figures you'd have known him. But Nick, I went through all the trouble taking a teabag out of the box and boiling the water—then the mugs were _way_ up high—and don't get me started on all the dust bunnies I had to battle for the teapot. Under the sink with coffee and rat poison, seriously? Just a little please, hmm? Then whatever you like."

"Alright," moaned Nick. "But only since you put in _so_ much effort."

He choked down a drop, noticing her youthful pink stretchy pants and dark jacket with multi-coloured hearts. She looked sweet. He gave her a smooch on the cheek, glad that she was back to her old self.

"What was that for?" asked Natalie.

"I like seeing you back to normal, Nat. Happy and silly. Ready to eat?" said Nick.

He went to touch her shoulder, but she sprang like a cat from the table.

"Natalie? Is everything okay? I promise to try a little chicken if that's what you want?" he said, confused.

"No, Nick," she answered, leaning over the counter, her back to him. The kiss, however small, had reminded her of the one at the Fernridge complex. That kiss was warm and wonderful, speaking quiet volumes, not a hasty platonic peck.

"What is it?" said Nick, rising. "You can tell me." He wrapped his arms around her before she could bolt. Thankfully, there was no protest. A memory struggled to surface, but it never took shape. "You've got to tell me why you're so bothered these days."

"It's nothing," declared Natalie, facing him. She tried for a reassuring smile, but it failed to form.

"Clearly, it's not," argued Nick.

Natalie grimaced. Grabbing his stubbled chin, she looked for a long moment into his baby blues, hoping for a fragment of his old self, but only confusion stared back. "We're _friends_ , right?" she said, finally.

"What?" answered Nick, puzzled by the obvious question. Stroking her long hair, he declared gently, "Of course. Best friends."

"Nothing more?"

Nick sighed. "Is that what this is about? Nat, there can't be anything more between us. Mortal-vampire relationships are recipes for disaster." He knew this well—and yet his traitorous heart jumped thrice against her warmth. The void inside that he'd been lessening by guilty sips of human blood, faded out entirely with Natalie close. He groaned and ground out, "It's too dangerous."

"I know, I get it," she said with a shrug. "But I _need_ more. I need to know about the vampire _and_ the human—as-as your friend."

Nick backed away. His eyes narrowed. "Why this sudden interest? Why now?"

Nat chewed her lip. _Why now indeed? How do I get him to talk without seeming suspicious?_ She thought for a beat, then uttered, "You've held me at arm's length—while I've opened up about my whole family, my whole life, to you."

"You don't want to know everything," Nick told her firmly. The few recollections of his mortal family, the stories that Natalie begged to hear, were interwoven among the darkest parts of his past.

"I understand, I do. Secrets keep your kind safe. But at some point, you've got to trust me—completely. _Please_ , Nick." Natalie's tone was firm but tender, knowing what she wanted and was going to get. She'd crack this angsty nosferatu or die trying. "Look, what I mean is—I know the truth. You're afraid I'll reject you."

Nick stared in wonder. _Has anyone been able to read me so clearly?_ "It's not for the faint of heart," he warned.

Natalie shrugged again, undaunted, then folded her arms and said, "Tell me already."

He sighed, taking her hand and sitting her down. "Remember, you asked for it."

Nick reluctantly began with Fleur, his _maman_ and his _papa_. He told her of his home in Perwez and of the peasants, then switched to André and the flute. For better or worse, Nat would learn of his bloody beginnings.

Like the time, he'd despicably hunted a child.

* * *

_ The Duchy of Brabant, Western Europe - **1267** _

It hadn't taken long to track down the shaggy adolescent who had stolen the flute. Nicholas materialized before him, as he admired his new possession. The lad yelped and sprinted away. Nicholas let him go for a few minutes, eyes changing and fangs growing with the delightful promise of a hunt.

He bowed his head, hiding his deadly nature from passersby. The creature inside thrashed in hunger, twisting his mind such that anger turned into a rage to kill, even one so young. It had been too long since he'd fed, so busy was he playing guardian to Madeleine.

His quarry snaked deftly through crowded streets. In pursuit, Nicholas pushed single-mindedly through a group of brick-carting masons, causing them to lose their load. He would feed, return the flute and leave Leuven in short order. The scenery turned bleaker as he stalked his prey, the game ending at a dingy dwelling that made Andre's shack seem boast-worthy.

The teen pulled at the entrance of rough boards and scrambled inside. Nicholas could hear arguing. He pulled back his vampire visage, for the moment.

A brute of a man with more gums than teeth strode out. His monstrous mass filled the doorway, as he leered at Nicholas. "Vous avez faites une peur bleue à mon fils! (You scared my son stiff)! What the hell do you want?" he snapped.

Nicholas could barely comprehend his slurred French before the man belched, and the stench of ale wafted. "Your son has taken something that does not belong to him—a flute."

"I did not steal anything," said a voice. The boy poked his head out from behind his mountainous father. "Je l'ai trouvée, c'est la mienne!" (I found it. It's mine).

Nicholas heard the youth's heart take off with deceit. "Where is the flute?!" he demanded, advancing, his patience thin. The need for blood, keen as only a young vampire possessed, would not be controlled much longer.

"My son is _very_ attached, monsieur, but with a few sterling—and maybe your cloak? Then again, you seem a rich man. How much is it worth to you?" The man flashed his gums.

Nicholas growled low, his vision reddening, as he pulled the human into the air like a salt sack. With his other hand, he jerked the man's head back viciously, exposing his neck, then hissed and struck, revelling in the fright coursing through this one's blood.

He drank until the hulk of a human was dry, then dumped the body aside and locked a glowing gaze on the other mortal, giving the boy a gory smile of little warmth.

The adolescent screamed, melting into a wall. With shaky hands, he withdrew the flute from his pocket and tossed it over.

Nicholas snarled, delighting in the perfume of panic. He came closer, beginning the dance of death.

But, even with the beast thundering in his mind for more, there was a whisper of something else.

The flute had begun to play.

Nicholas's attention snapped to it.

No one was there.

The instrument lay motionless on the floor. He realized he was the only one that could hear its song. The teen never shifted his terror-stricken face from the vampire's teeth.

One of Fleur's velvety ballads wrapped around Nicholas, tremulous, calm and beautiful…

bringing him to his senses.

He saw the child before him, shivering uncontrollably in a yellow puddle. He'd felt guilt before, but it had never stopped him. The tide of self-disgust that washed over his being then froze him solid.

Eyes shifting to blue, Nicholas stared at the flute until the very last magical note.

The youth, realizing his moment of escape, rushed past.

The vampire did not give chase.

* * *

_ The 96th Police Precinct - **1995** _

Schanke slammed his car door harshly in the precinct parking lot, almost late for his shift due to a talent show at his daughter's school. Each act had been longer than the last. Jenny had played the finale, _Stairway to Heaven,_ on the kazoo. He broke into a jog to make it on time.

"Mr. Shanke!" called a voice, stopping him in his tracks.

A bleach-blond beauty struggled to catch up with him in sky-high, leopard stilettos. Her large scarlet handbag flopped with her movements, as did the creamy mounds peeking through a khaki blouse. "Mr. Shanke," she said, offering a neatly manicured hand. The lady grinned with all her veneers when he shook it. "Hi, Leilah Beck. I'm a journalist. I covered the 'Killer Stalker of Toronto'. Can we talk privately?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's _Schanke_ —with a C. And, I've got nothing more to comment on that case." If there was one thing he detested, it was the bloodsucking media.

"Just a couple minutes, _please_. I found something interesting—I think it's related."

Schanke heaved a great sigh. "It'd better be good."

Clocking in quickly, he told Cohen about his potential informant. She mentioned that Nick had gone to talk to Palmar. He nodded and assured he would catch up shortly before taking Ms. Beck to a coffee shop—and away from Greenwood and Wright. They'd been sniffing around like rabid terriers ever since the Anderson incident. He didn't need them poking their noses into this too.

"Detective, I check my stories meticulously. I talked to David Berton's family and Daniel Longpré's neighbours. I had solid sources. I'm serious about the facts," Ms. Beck explained in a gush.

Schanke could tell she was nervous. Besides verbal diarrhea, she stirred her coffee like a Mixmaster. "Of course," he said feebly. "You said you had something?"

"Yes. I understand your partner killed Michel Galois to save you. But there's just one thing." She paused and tapped a papaya-coloured fingernail. "I found this under some crates. Guess it was missed." The journalist fished in her purse, then plunked the item on the table—a syringe of rust-brown goop in a plastic baggy.

Schanke looked sideways at the strange item, as foggy images blanketed his vision. _Not even Lacroix knows how different you are from the others, does he?_ a screechy voice declared.

"Smells like sewage. But it looks like old blood." Ms. Beck fanned her hand in front of her nose. "So, tell me detective—was the killer part of some drugged-out cult? Was he going to inject you with this slime?"

Schanke groaned and rose, his belief that reporters were annoying insects firmly intact. "You're from the National Intruder, aren't you?" He knew that dreadful tabloid—zombie dentists, mind-controlled mayors among other ridiculous articles. He snatched the baggy. "Don't jump to wild conclusions, Ms. Beck. Whatever's in this thing, it could be dangerous."


	7. Chapter 7

_ 96th Precinct, Toronto, **1995** _

Back at the shop, Schanke ignored the oddities floating around his brain since touching that syringe, recognizing them now as post-trauma blips from his ordeal at the Human Touch. _I've been through tough cases. This shouldn't be bugging me so much_ , he told himself _,_ shaking his head and concentrating on work by tracking down a number for Ed's next of kin and calling it. Twenty minutes later, as he was hanging up, Nick came by.

"Get anything?" Schanke asked.

"Not really," answered Nick, sitting down. "Palmar's sure the wife wasn't there. He didn't know anything about McCreed's finances—probably kept it to himself."

"Uh-huh. I called his uncle Ron in Calgary. He was raised by a single mother, Georgia. She died eleven years ago. The father wasn't in the picture, so Ron took him in."

"Did his uncle say anything about the money situation?"

"Yeah. He was sorry he couldn't help Ed out. But he was having a tough time making ends meet himself," said Schanke. "Wonder why the kid didn't apply for a student loan?"

"Maybe he did?" replied Nick before picking up his phone.

* * *

_ Metro Savings, Toronto - **1995** _

What seemed like an easy task had taken more time than Nick and Schanke could have imagined. Finding the application that McCreed had made for financial assistance was tiringly tedious. They phoned bank after bank until there was a hit at Metro Savings.

When the pair arrived, a hawk-nosed financial advisor with a tight, sandy top knot and cat-eye glasses was not amused to accommodate them past the bank's hours of service. A few well-chosen words and a discreet brain whammy from Nick changed her attitude. After that, she was very agreeable.

"What are the circumstances under which candidates may be rejected for a student loan?" asked Nick.

"Hmm?" she replied, ogling his scruffy face.

He repeated the question a little louder.

"Oh," said the advisor, catching herself and sitting straighter behind her huge oak desk.

Schanke rolled his eyes at her reaction. _A bit of smooth talk, and they fall all over him. What a player,_ he scoffed inwardly, shifting in his seat. Surrounded by dusty rose, curly-cue wallpaper, he sat in an absurdly overstuffed, teal armchair that was attempting to swallow him whole. Nick had opted to remain standing after seeing the trouble Schanke was having.

The woman didn't seem to notice and said, "Well, uh, there're many conditions, it all depends on the situation. The feds are getting out of the loan business. Some of the major banks, like us, have taken it on…and our rules are more rigid. We don't accept candidates whose parents make a substantial income, only those who can prove financial hardship. That was the case with Edward McCreed. He was rejected because his father is a very wealthy man. I don't know the policies of other banks. But I'd assume they're similar."

"Do you have his father's name and number?" asked Schanke.

"I do. It's a standard requirement. Any missing or untrue information voids the application." She handed the papers over, pointing to where McCreed had filled the area marked _Family Background_. He'd put "deceased" for his mother. He had, however, written a name for his father.

Fredric Andersen.

* * *

_ The Duchy of Brabant, Western Europe - **1267** _

There was a sizeable crowd wandering about the grand marché tonight. It hummed with the chatter of merchants pitching their wares and townspeople busily bartering. Nicholas stayed on the outskirts searching for Madeleine, hoping she might show one last time even though he'd told her not to. He needed to give her the flute and couldn't leave until it was returned.

"Nicholas de Brabant," said a stranger from behind.

The former knight turned, and a man unceremoniously ran him through with a sword, barely missing a lung. The pain was unbearable, like fire, as if made from the sun. Blood tears rimmed his eyes, but he refused to let them fall and reveal signs of his unnatural nature. The bustle in the marketplace had ceased. All eyes were locked on the young, scraggly figure in a soiled patchwork tunic and torn hosiery, who'd stabbed a finely dressed gentleman in a black as night, fur cloak.

"Quel effet cela vous fait-il? (What does it feel like?) My blade was blessed with holy water. Do you know pain, eh demon?" The grungy man pushed his sword further and received a throaty groan. He smiled, knowing how to torture a vampire. He'd been waiting decades for the opportunity. "You _can_ feel that—my heart is glad. Are you afraid for your life? Maybe you will understand what _they_ felt when you came to them each night!" His pastel blue eyes burned. A crown of light locks gave him the look of an avenging angel.

Nicholas felt his body respond to the damage, attempting to heal. The wound burned hotter than hellfire, but steel could not end him. A bigger threat was the scorching urge to slaughter this man that sparked and spread. _No_ , he thought, grappling with it. Quelling his instincts took immense effort, but his mortal facade held. It was encouraging. The vampire inside was his murderous master most nights.

As if on cue, its killer drives tugged with renewed force. _I cannot harm this one. I will not!_ he commanded it with a grunt, bending low.

"Are you dying? Wonderful!" The man laughed joyously, pulling out his blade. "I know their names. Isabelle Gaudet, Geneviève La Rivière—and now my dearest Madeleine. Those wretched, bloodstained hands of yours pried into her affections! I vowed," he paused, then spat on his shuttering victim and ground out, " _Bête_ (Beast), to avenge those you took for your unholy needs!" He swore a foul string of curses, pulling a wooden cross with a wicked tipped end from his waist belt. "May the Lord strengthen and guide me, as I rid Satan's refuse from the Earth!"

Nicholas averted his eyes reflexively, heart throbbing twice in panic. Precious blood pooled in the dirt. His whole body ached at the loss. The moan that escaped him then was more animal than human. "André," he rasped.

"Do not speak, you vile thing! I despise you, destroyer of lives—destroyer of _my_ life! Everyone thought me insane when I told them I had seen a devilish creature! How embarrassing it was for the duke, to have a _demented_ child among his snotty ranks. So, he stripped my name and threatened to exorcise me. I became the ward of a sheep farmer. And rather than be covered in animal shit my whole life, I ran away from there! Now, I am a tisserand (weaver) working for a pittance!"

Nicholas faced him painfully, his eyes watering and his heart pounding at the sight of the cross. He held Fleur's flute up. "I understand your hatred of me, but this is Madeleine's," he said. "It was your mother's favourite…and now your daughter's."

André snatched the instrument. "Bloody is everything you touch," he snarled, tossing the wooden cylinder on the ground and crushing it under a shabby boot, then raising the cross to strike.

Nicholas's hand moved faster than human eyes could follow, as he gripped his nephew's wrist solidly, stopping just short of crushing bone.

André yelped, and the cross fell into the dirt.

"Truly, I am sorry," said Nicholas, letting go. André clutched his wrist to his chest, while the vampire gathered the last of his strength and flew.

* * *

_ Lawrence Park, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick ascended the slate steps to Fredric and Diedre Andersen's house, past perfect ovals of shrubbery and mature maple trees that lined the U-shaped driveway. He and Schanke had waited down the street between Beamers and Bentleys until Mr. Anderson left in his own luxury automobile. Nick knocked on the swans-in-flight glass etched doors, while Schanke whistled in awe from behind and muttered, "Swanky crib."

"Hello," answered a woman on a nearby video intercom, her white hair a rainbow of tidy curlers.

Nick pressed the button and said, "Mrs. Andersen?"

"Yes?" she answered.

"We're with the police, can we talk a moment? I'm Detective Knight, and my partner is Detective Schanke," Nick told her, producing his badge. "We've got a few questions about the home invasion."

"It's late," she complained. "Can you come back in the morning? Fred'll be home."

"We'd like to talk to you. It'll only take a few minutes," Schanke promised.

"Alright," said Mrs. Andersen tiredly, swinging open the entrance, clad in a mauve satin robe and fluffy cloud print slippers. She ushered them into the foyer, crowded by rolly polly statues of naked Cherubs and an enormous sparkling chandelier, then onto an adjacent sitting room. There was a crackling terracotta and ocean turquoise fireplace that looked as if it'd been flown in straight from Tuscany. She indicated they sit on her frenzied floral couch, then joined them on the twinning loveseat a doily decorated coffee table away.

"You answered the door that night?" said Schanke.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Andersen, sitting with her arms crossed, rubbing them repeatedly, despite the considerable warmth of the room.

"No one else?" asked Nick

"Just me—and that horrible kid," she replied.

"Just you? We have someone who says otherwise," said Nick. He tried to capture her attention, but it shifted to the fire. "Mrs. Andersen, we know your husband knew Edward McCreed."

"Yes. I heard about your meeting with him earlier tonight," she stated, eyes still drifting.

"He admitted knowing the boy from his business," uttered Schanke.

"So he told me," she muttered.

"We spoke to someone who witnessed your husband open the door and let Edward in last Tuesday. Why create an alternate story?" pushed Schanke.

"That's not what happened." Mrs. Andersen shook her head, mouth twisting glumly at him, before turning again to the dancing flames with poorly hidden dismay.

"Is it true that Frederic is Edward's father?" said Nick.

She looked sharply his way, her cheeks reddening.

 _Yes, and it's embarrassing for you, isn't it?_ he said to himself. "Why would he tell us McCreed was just a business associate?"

"I don't know," she answered with a half-hearted shrug.

"You do," declared Nick, fixing on her fluttering heartbeat, but before he could give a mental push her eyes filled with tears. Leaning forward instead, he said, "We know you're just trying to protect Fredric, but, trust me, it's better to tell the truth."

She nodded slowly. "That boy—h-he said Fred raped his mother back in Calgary and there was evidence to prove it. He wanted big money or he was going to the media. Fred was afraid. He didn't want his reputation to be ruined."

"So he killed McCreed. There was no home invasion. The kid didn't have a weapon and didn't force his way in. Your husband lured him here with the promise of cash," said Nick.

"Then shot him when he asked for it," finished Schanke.

"Yes." Diedre Andersen nodded again and wept.

* * *

_ Queen St. West Professional Building, Toronto - **1995** _

Fredric Andersen's recruitment business was in a cluster of soaring, glass high rises in the rich person's playground, Toronto's financial district. Nick burst out of the car as soon as they arrived with Schanke lagging behind. A barbell moustached security guard told them that the office was on the tenth level. The elevators were out of service, so Nick charged up the stairs.

Upon looking at the flights that awaited him, Schanke sighed. "No way!" he whined, noting his partner rising higher and higher without any visible huffing and puffing.

Nick opened the creaky hinged door that led to the tenth floor and followed brass signs down the plush pink carpeted hallway that pointed to _Andersen Recruitment Inc_. When he arrived at the correct door, he tried the knob. It wasn't locked.

He stormed past an empty waiting area and a clucking twenty-something secretary, who demanded he take a seat. Nick backed up, leaning over her marble service counter and saying, "Police, I need to see Fredric Andersen. He's under arrest," flashing his shield.

"Warrant?" she asked flatly.

 _Damn those cop shows!_ Nick thought _._ Mortals these days were too nosy about legalities. This case didn't require an arrest warrant. In Chicago during the eighties, on his last job as a policeman, the badge would have been enough. _I don't have time to explain the criminal code._ He locked on her heart and said, "There's probable cause...and you're too busy for a warrant."

"So busy," she mumbled, eyes glazing, and turned to tap the 'B, U, S, Y' keys over and over on her computer, as Nick stormed down the hallway and into Andersen's office.

The man spun in his chair at the sound of the detective. "You again? Angie normally keeps the riffraff out of my hair. How'd you get past her?

"She liked my smile."

Anderson scoffed. "Well, I don't. What do you want?" he snapped.

"Your wife told us everything."

"And, what would that be?" asked Andersen

"You murdered Edward McCreed."

"No way!" He shook his head. "What evidence have you got?"

"Besides Diedre's testimony on tape, we have an eyewitness that saw you let Edward into your home…and a motive for murder. We know all about the extortion scam he was trying to pull," declared Nick.

Anderson huffed, before yelling, "That son of a bitch tried to squeeze us for a hundred thousand, and who knows if he would've stopped there! My name is gold in this town. I couldn't let that lowlife damage it!"

"Words of intimidation are just words. Your name isn't going to mean much when 'murderer' is associated with it. There were other lawful ways to deal with him. You fired on an unarmed man."

"More like a piece of garbage," derided the man.

"That's no way to talk about somebody who could be your son. You're under arrest. Get up slowly and put your arms up high on the wall behind you," ordered Nick.

Fredric Andersen curled his lip before standing begrudgingly and turning to the wall. Instead of putting his arms out, however, he snatched a silver letter opener from a filing cabinet and whirled around, shouting, "Go to Hell!"

Lunging, he stabbed the detective's shoulder, carving it open. At the smell of blood seeping from the tear in his leather coat, Nick's vampire side roared furiously to life. Eyes filling with greenish-gold, he hissed through lengthening canines.

Andersen gaped at him in wide-eyed alarm and clenched his weapon tighter. "What are you?! D-don't come near me!" he gasped, waving the opener threateningly while retreating backward. Blubbering a prayer, he hit the wall hard with his back.

In a blur, Nick closed in, grabbing the man's neck and raising him up with one hand. The sharp object dropped silently onto beige Berber, as Andersen struggled to release his solid grip.

 _A little taste and I'd know for sure if he raped her_ , Nick thought. He could solve two crimes instead of one. The air was filled with the scent of his own blood. It infuriated him, pushing lethal urges to the surface. Ignoring the pleas of the mortal, he closed his light lashes and listened to the enthralling thumping beat of panic. A sip would give him all he needed. Opening blazing eyes once again and growling low, he pulled the human towards his teeth.

"What're you doing!?" Schanke yelled from the door.

Nick froze. _What was I about to do? Sip...then kill?_ knowing a sip could turn to murder in an instant. _I'm not a mad thing in need of sustenance? Where's my willpower?_ he railed at himself. Had the "innocent nips" of human blood this past week heightened awful impulses, he wondered. Nick breathed in a great gulp of air, and, like so many times before, shoved down the creature inside with shackles of shame, letting Andersen fall before turning to his partner with blue eyes.

"That cop choked me! He had insane yellow eyes and fangs!" Andersen pointed a shaky finger from his crumpled position on the floor.

Nick glanced his way, focusing on the man's heart. With a reverberating tone, he said, "You're lying," and waited to hear Andersen echo the suggestion, then pulled him off the ground and slapped handcuffs on. Citing the perp his rights, he pushed the dazed man past Schanke and out of the office.

His partner stood alone in an onslaught of weird images—of horrible beings with eyes like fire; their nasty pointed teeth gleaming white.

* * *

_ Gateway Lane, Toronto – **1995** _

"It's official. Fred Andersen and Ed McCreed are father and son. Their DNA is closely related," declared Natalie from her comfy position on Nick's sofa.

"What about the rape allegations?" Nick asked.

"If a victim comes to a clinic within 48 hours of the rape, semen and hair samples can usually be recovered. But there're tons of rape kits around the country from these types of crimes. Many, many times this type of thing goes unsolved. Till I see the DNA report from Georgia McCreed's samples, if it ever _gets_ here, I can't say much more. I put in a request with Calgary PD to fax it. Should be coming any day. You can't nail him with sexual assault…but soon, hopefully, if there's enough evidence. You know as well as I, there's no statute of limitations in Canada. Until then, let's hope the murder charge runs through the courts quickly and he's locked up for a long time."

"Yeah. But, I still don't understand why Georgia didn't tell the police who allegedly raped her? I mean, she took the time to get tested and told her son, didn't she?" responded Nick from the kitchen, grabbing his glass of bovine blood and joining Nat on the sofa. His stomach gurgled in protest at the first swig, but he chugged the rest anyway, determined to suppress any killer urges drinking human might have spawned. Nick had allowed himself one comfort though, having warmed it up in the microwave.

"Rape is a horrible thing. It takes courage to come forward. And Fred Anderson is one scary, powerful guy," Natalie answered. 

He nodded.

"What're you going to do about Schanke?" she asked, sharing her blanket.

Nick frowned as he settled under the cozy cover, having already tried to make his partner forget last night's debacle. Usually hypnotizing him was an easy task, but something had made Schanke resistant.

Now, he didn't quite know what to do.

* * *

_ The 96th Precinct, Toronto - **1995** _

Schanke fingered the little baggy with the syringe of mystery mud that Leilah Beck had found. He'd have it analyzed tomorrow...not positive he wanted to know what was in there…or what was taking shape in his mind.

There was something strange and scary about this thing. And, it had everything to do with Michel Galois…and Nick.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 3 **

_ Coroner's Building, Toronto - **1995** _

"So, what's up, Nat?" Schanke called as he burst into her pasty green examining room in the Toronto coroner's building. "Why the urgent message to come down."

"I think you can guess," said Natalie, pressing her back against a cart of medical instruments, beckoning him with thick, sweeping eyelashes. Schanke gulped, as he noticed the top few buttons of her ivory blouse open.

Natalie advanced slowly. "I'm glad you came," she whispered in his ear. Her hand rubbed his chest, then unbuttoned the top of his navy collared shirt.

He froze. _Think ONLY of the wife!_ _Myra, Myra, Myra…so incredible from her head to her toes!_ _Oh, help me, God!_ He could never have imagined that Natalie had feelings for him. She seemed committed to the teeter-totter thing going on with Nick. He wasn't prepared for this. "Uh—Nat, what's going on?!"

"Quiet, Schank." Natalie brushed a long, pearly fingernail over his lips and batted her light grey eyes. "I need you," she begged. "I wanna show you something."

"N-no, not that, please," he said, pushing her away. _She's gone bananas! Nat knows I'm married!_ _After all the gruesome stuff that's come in here, she's flipped her lid!_

Natalie giggled, slinking ever forward, hips swinging seductively in a short sienna skirt, as she corralled him against her examining table. With no one currently under a sheet, it was empty and perfectly polished, glinting brightly against the fluorescent lights. "Silly boy. What're you thinking? Sit," she commanded, then pointed to the table, "there!"

Reluctantly, Schanke jumped up. _Two more minutes of this…and I'm outta here_ , he gulped and glanced at his watch. Ten-forty p.m., where was Nick anyway? He hadn't shown up for his shift and was unreachable by phone. Schanke's eyes were playing tricks, as he took in the room. The print on medical diagrams was jumbled, toddler-like script, while the walls seemed to be edging closer.

Using his distractedness, Natalie snatched his left arm and clamped a handcuff on. Schanke cried out, "Hey!" struggling, while she attached the other cuff to a drainage pipe. "Nat! Why're you doing this?!"

"Oh, sweetheart," she cooed. "It's not for me." Nat flashed him a cold smile. "He's hungry."

"W-What? Who?!" sputtered Schanke.

He was interrupted by a low rumble—a rumble he'd heard in his nightmares.

Fear ignited in his chest. He pulled himself upright, managing to wiggle off the table and yarded on the handcuff. It held firm.

Murderer Michel Galois stalked into the room, tall as a Toronto Raptor with uneven bristles of coppery hair and lizard coloured eyes. He snarled, displaying vicious canine teeth.

Schanke couldn't scream, for his voice had stopped working, leaving him unable to even generate a whimper.

The monster's features began to bubble and shift until another face appeared—blond and stubbled chinned. The eyes and teeth remained, locked on him.

Fanged and famished.

Nick.

Schanke bolted awake from his easy chair, gasping for air. No matter how he tried, it wasn't enough, as his heart threatened to burst. A full ten minutes of deep gulps later, he finally calmed. At that time, he made a decision. It was only a matter of when.

* * *

_ The National Intruder Headquarters, Toronto - **1995** _

Journalist Leilah Beck grabbed a polka dot clutch and wriggled out of her cramped office as fast as her tiny spandex, violet dress with silver epaulettes would allow. After smoothing the fabric along her thighs, she peeked at the chunky rhinestone watch on her wrist. _Five-thirty p.m._ She'd promised to feed her grandmother's dog. Petey the pudgy Papillon, would be whining for his supper by now—that is if he'd taken time off from yapping at passersby from the living room window.

Leilah's over-processed, light locks whipped back like straw as she cut through the cubicle city of the tabloid headquarters at top speed, almost running into a man coming her way. He saw her charge like a greyhound and dodged just in time. "Whoa!" he chuckled, as she brushed his side. "You just about got me there!"

She stopped, her cheeks pink. "Oh, geez. Sorry. Wasn't watching."

The man grinned, a perfect contrast of pearly whites against his cocoa features and neat walnut coloured beard. "It's fine. Bumping into a _beautiful_ woman's okay by me." He extended a hand saying, "Martin Lindsay," with a hint of an accent—smoky and European.

 _And just how many women **have** you been bumping with that line? _Leilah thought, devilishly. She returned the handshake, appreciating the word "beautiful" at least—more than the other B-word her coworkers had used for her. They felt her passionate drive to get another front-page story was grand-standing, but she didn't care. _Glory goes to the victor—not the lazy-butt_. "Are you new?"

Martin's eyes crinkled at the corners in cheerful surprise. "It's you, Ms. Beck! Mr. Titus told me to introduce myself. I'm your new partner."

"Um—partner?" blurted Leilah with audible irritation. Scanning the room, she was relieved that no heads had popped past the modular walls. Nobody needed to see her blow this guy off. Her rep for being troublesome didn't need fostering. "The boss has never made me partner before. I'm not looking to be half of a dynamic duo. Ask him to put you with someone else."

Martin shook his head. "I insisted. I'm new to Toronto, but I've read your work from the bloodsucking blood drive a couple of years ago to that super cop that took down the 'Killer Stalker of Toronto'. The way you get the details—it's amazing."

"Don't know about _amazing_ ," said Leilah, flushing again. _Damn, this man is WAY too hot. Those eyelashes are even prettier and longer than my false ones, and he's got a silver tongue to boot._ "It's more persistence, to the point of being a pain in the butt."

Martin laughed again. "Whatever it is, I want to know how to do it—how to get all the angles."

"Angles, eh?" the woman snickered. _Flattery gets you everywhere doesn't it, Cutie pie?_ Leilah thought. "I guess I could use somebody on Team Beck, besides Titus." She was a rookie here with no connection to her coworkers, and while Leilah lived for reality news, they were senile slugs content with slimy stories. For example, Mo, her neighbour, was a 30-year vet of the tabs, happy to write fake fortunes, disastrous political columns and exaggerated celeb hookups.

"You're in luck. I've been following up on that cop, and if I'm right, there's more. Welcome to the Intruder, land of big star boob jobs and whacky wonders—and me, the girl who does the _real_ work—spicy but true local bits. Hold on tight, it's gonna be bumpy. But first, I'm off to feed my Gran's pooch. She's on a South American cruise. I'll fill you in on the way, then we'll drive by that policeman's pad," replied Leilah.

"Sound's great," said Martin, as he trailed the perky woman.

* * *

_ Gateway Lane, Toronto - **1995** _

Leilah parked her flint grey Civic across from officer Knight's residence on Gateway Lane and cut the engine.

"My snitch at the 96th precinct says detective Knight's Human Touch takedown wasn't _appreciated_ by everyone. He's got a rep as a kamikaze cop—who takes things into his own hands…a superman wannabe—minus the tights. Word is…he's jumped in front of shooters. Lucky he hasn't been hit," she dished, remembering her conversation with Detective Wright. _It must be nice to be bulletproof_ ; he'd told her snidely.

"Hit or suspended," Martin added.

"Uh-huh. He and his partner's arrest record is one of the highest in homicide in all of Toronto—and that keeps him on the job, I guess."

"But things have got to hit the fan soon. After all, he's only human right? And we all make mistakes. If Knight doesn't get a hole punched in him one day, it'll be a bystander," declared Lindsay.

Leilah nodded. "I've watched his place for days." She dug up a bulky camera from her designer bag and looked through its telephoto lens. "I used a fire escape to take a peek. It's all teched up in there. TV's as big as an elephant. All the toys have to be worth a mint. There's a classic Vincent Black Lightning motorcycle decorating the living room and an old Cadillac in the garage. The two together gotta be worth a million. Yet he lives in an industrial sector beside plumbing suppliers? Weird."

"Where do you suppose he got the coin. Not from being a public servant."

"Who knows? Could be legit, say family funds, but I dunno. He's a loner. A background check didn't come up with relatives dead or alive. And here's the kicker, my snitch told me he paints—only he uses animal blood he keeps in the fridge!" She had an itch about this cop that wouldn't go away. Leilah rubbed her hands together excitedly, smelling a story.

"Disgusting. Why blood?"

"Thickens the paint, apparently. Oh, there's more. This guy's a hermit—only comes out at night. Even shutters the windows during the day," explained Leilah.

"He doesn't come out when it's bright?"

"Never."

"Why would anyone want to live in the dark all the time?"

"Allergy to the sun—that's what my informant said. The one time he saw Knight come in for a dayshift he'd wrapped himself up like a mummy but was all sunburned anyway. Have you ever run across a sun allergy before?"

"Nope."

"I heard about this kid in Romania…but it's super rare. Knight's an oddball, maybe even a blood fetishist and a big drinker. I checked his garbage. You wouldn't believe how many wine bottles I found. He's definitely a danger to the public with his hero complex. I found a syringe at the Human Touch after the cops had cleared out. Knight's partner snatched it from me—long story. The thing smelled like garbage, but you know what it looked like—blood."

Martin shook his head in wonder. "Woah! That's some hot news developing. Could there be a link?"

"It's a long shot, but something's bonkers about Knight. Hey, there he is! Duck down!" whispered Leilah.

The garage door buzzed open. A very long, green car emerged, gliding down the street, its driver not noticing two crouching occupants in a grey Civic as it passed by.

* * *

_ Trinity Bellwoods Park, Toronto - **1995** _

Whirling lights of red and blue splashed across the grounds of Trinity Bellwoods Park on Strachan St. Hidden in the shrubs beyond the basketball court and skate bowl, lay the body of a young Asian male. Forensic officers were rushing around it with masks held over their faces, by the time Nick arrived on the scene. Bobbing under the yellow caution ribbon cordoning the area, he saw Natalie amongst the crowd, scrawling something on a clipboard.

"One bullet to the left temple. Close range. Must've happened very fast—the kid didn't have time to run," she informed when Nick came up beside her.

"Sounds like B-dog's style to me, right down to the stolen shoes," he replied, bending down.

The corpse was dressed in a camouflage-patterned t-shirt with rows of large safety pins over ripped jeans. Woolly grey socks with red striped tops peeked from his pant legs. What was left of the victim's face after vermin had gotten to him stared blankly.

"Another turf war?" Nick offered, getting up hurriedly. The grisly remains were having a different effect on him tonight. They'd been here for some time. When a body started to decompose, the scent was repulsive to his finely-tuned senses, the odours of rotting flesh and stale blood making his stomach roll. "Where's Schanke?" asked Nick, ignoring the stench as best he could.

Natalie gestured to her far right, where the detective stood at the skate hangout, talking to a baggy clothed teen with a longboard.

Nick groaned, not looking forward to checking in. Schanke was visibly uncomfortable around him these days. Their dynamic had taken a nose-dive since the Andersen collar a week ago. Nick had tried to butter him up with a repulsive garlic-seasoned Greek dish before using any mind tricks, but it hadn't worked. He had hoped when the day came to reveal his secret that Schanke might accept him. _Stupid_ , he chided himself.

Natalie observed the scowl on her friend's face. "Talk to him, explain. You told me what happened with your nephew. I didn't run screaming. You've made mistakes. We all have."

"Yours aren't deadly," he muttered.

"Wallowing doesn't look good on anyone. You're not the same anymore. You're better than you think. Talk to Don, he's a good man too," she urged.

Nick gave her a side squeeze with one arm. "Glad I can count on you for a pep talk," Nick said, sparing a glance at his partner. Schanke was staring his way, but he quickly shifted back to the skateboarder. "I've tried," complained Nick.

"Without the hypnosis. Tell the truth. Let _him_ decide how to process it."

"He's heard enough. Now it depends on what he does. If Schanke goes knocking on Lacroix's door again looking for answers, he won't be leaving."

"You think you can make him forget?"

"If I can figure out what's blocking me, yeah. He's never been a resistor before. I need to know why that's changed—for his sake and mine."

Nat nodded. "I'll keep my ears open." She looked at her watch and whistled. "Yikes, it's getting late. I'm off, Nick. Just covered a day shift before this, and I'd prefer _not_ to be up all night. With Peter Xhan gone now, I'm busier than ever. The bags under my eyes have matching bags of their own."

"Have a good sleep," said Nick.

Natalie wished him luck, yawning as she left.

* * *

_ London, England - **1912** _

"Tis all we got righ' nah," said a short, round maid in a stiff cockney accent, offering the fair stranger a tiny room in the servant's quarters of the Carmichael manor. She'd been told to expect him late, but not a mere hour before the rooster crowed. "Seems 'e missus 'as all ov London 'ere."

The bedroom was sparse, containing a single mattress, lopsided night table and cracked lamp with no shade. No guests ever ventured into this part of the house, Nicholas surmised. Maude Carmichael, widow of coal baron Eric Carmichael, wouldn't approve of him sleeping here either. Her son Carey had offered his mother's home to the traveller. It was Nicholas who'd insisted on staying in the most isolated wing. With only the hired help, now locked in their rooms and snoring, it was much less crowded. The rest of the estate was packed for a party. He could slip away from here quietly after sorely-needed slumber.

He closed the door promptly after the woman dashed out, exceedingly weary and thirsty from a hurried journey back to England. Removing a small, silver flask from his suitcase, he drank deeply. Nicholas had always avoided returning to his previous incarnations, but after the haste in which he'd left Switzerland, an offer of shelter for the day was welcome.

* * *

_ Oxford, England - **1912** _

_Two months earlier…_

Nicholas couldn't believe his fortune to be teaching history at Oxford. He'd never envisioned himself as an instructor, his stomach bubbling anxiously the first time in front of a podium. As he began to share his experiences, in the guise of a scrupulously studied scholar, however, stories flowed out of him abundantly. He found himself sketching meticulous timelines and detailed diagrams over the chalkboards. Pupils sat rapt by his lessons in the small lecture room at Balliol, one of the many associated colleges. Curious questions flooded him, questions that could be answered easily.

In lecturing, Nicholas found a purpose for his longevity at last. He'd been pushed into the position by ancient language specialist, passionate Egyptologist and Dean of the department, Helen Ruskin-Slater, who had encouraged him not to simply dwell in the basement with his nose in old collections as a researcher.

"The mysteries of the past will be waiting for you to unlock tomorrow. Meanwhile, give back some of what you've learned _today_ ," Helen had said. She was one of the few people with whom Nicholas Holden had developed a professional affinity. They'd had many lively discussions on her favourite subject, the Kushites.

Nicholas grinned, as he thought about his most promising student, Carey Carmichael. Carey was the most outspoken of his students, with a flawless recall. Nicholas could tell he poured over the assigned readings and more, having seen the boy frequently in the library late at night. They would often get into long chats. The youngster's appetite for knowledge and the insights he gathered were astonishing.

Carey expressed an interest in research, begging twice weekly on the front steps of Balliol to assist his professor. It was a risky proposition. Nicholas was looking for a cure. He thought the old Welsh manuscripts he'd gotten his hands on held promise, but he hadn't found anything as of yet. Master Carmichael might be a new pair of fresh, keen eyes.

A Welshwoman had once predicted Nicholas's long, aimless journey through life. He knew Wales to be a land of mystery and magic. There had to be something in its history for him. One day, after a 20-page persuasive essay was thrust at him on "The Benefits of a Research Assistant", he finally conceded, telling Carey that he wished to study the period after 1211 when Welsh king Llywelyn regained much independence for Wales over the English monarchy.

It was around this time, that Nicholas had been dispatched as an aide to military captain Sir Raymond Delabarre, whose mission was to occupy a castle in Wales and quell any chafing over Norman Rule. The native peoples, who called themselves Cymry, had a longstanding culture of mysticism that refused to be diminished, even as the Normans pushed their agenda firmly across the land.

The teacher and his helper began to work nightly, examining text after text.

* * *

_ The 96th Police Precinct - **1995** _

Nick drummed a pencil on his desk, progressively getting louder. Schanke was deep in thought when he'd arrived. They'd worked separately at the scene and driven to the station individually as well.

Nick cleared his throat roughly, then asked, "Get anything from Trinity Bellwoods?"

Schanke jumped in his chair, having not noticed his partner come in. "Like a freaking ghost _,_ " he mumbled. "Um, yeah. The kid I interviewed was there a lot—found the body. Apparently, B-Dogs deal there all the time, too," he said, eyes darting to his blotter and the _Give me souvlaki or give me death!_ mug that Nick had gifted him on his last birthday. He took a slurpy gulp.

"Anything else? I got nothing from the bikers in the parking lot," declared Nick, pretending not to notice his partner's unease.

"There were other gang bangers—Golden Dragons if I had to guess from the description, poking around a week ago. They probably noticed the brisk business going on and did a little dealing themselves—upset a B-Dog. And you know, the Dogs are big-time territorial."

"A turf-war. I was thinking along those lines. Makes sense."

"I should talk to Marcia Jiannelli in vice. That neighbourhood's part of her beat. Maybe something's come down the pipe, you never know. Dispatch got her on the squawker. She's en route to the scene," said Schanke. Rising, he picked up his sportscoat and draped it over one arm. "What'd you think?" he asked.

Nick pasted on a happy face. "Sounds good. I'll catch up with you later," he replied, before witnessing the other detective zip out the door like his caboose was on fire. Nick knew they'd better talk soon. But, what could he say? And, how would Schanke take it?

"Hey, detective Knight!" shouted Brody Gibson from behind, as he deftly traversed the narrow gaps and corners of the grunt room.

Nick glanced over his shoulder. Gibson was the youngest officer in the 96th. He looked all of twelve in the standard baby blue police uniform with splashes of freckles on his cheeks and a short strawberry blond, officer cut. Somehow, the secretaries had convinced him to deliver the mail. He didn't seem to mind the chore, though. Schanke had said it was because the rookie had a crush on one of them.

"Julia asked me to give this to Schanke. Guess I missed him," stated Gibson, holding up a thin envelope. "Medico Labs. Looks like test results," he said.

"The McMillan toxicology— _finally_. We had it done independently when Natalie was away," sighed Nick

"Didn't trust Dr. Xhan, eh?" Gibson snickered, then whispered, "Not a lot of people did."

There was a rumour that Xhan had lost test reports. Nick knew it to be true but refused to comment. While Nat was away on holiday, the newbie coroner had misplaced the first report, and Schanke had requested an outside lab do the retest.

"Maybe that's why he's in Winnipeg now?" theorized Gibson.

Again, Nick didn't bite. "Thanks," he said, taking the envelope. They'd suspected McMillan had been high on several things when he'd committed a murder-suicide but hadn't been able to write it up as such without proof. _It'd be nice to close that one_ , he thought before ripping the document open. Unfolding a single sheet, he scanned it.

_Dear Mr. Donald Schanke,_

_I've run extensive tests on the syringe you recovered at the Human Touch facility. The majority of the contents I have found to be blood. This gives the substance its odd reddish-brown colour. After more analysis, I've concluded that the blood is animal in nature, specifically lamb's blood._

_As to the other items which make up this substance (and give it that strange odour you mentioned), I have to tell you quite honestly, besides Russian red garlic, I've no idea. It's rare when I can't identify chemical or herbal components here in the lab. I will be sending it to my colleague Ray Duthie at the University of Toronto. Maybe he will have more success. He'll advise you of any progress. You can reach him at 555-789-9234, extension 6739._

_Sincerely,_

_Anatasia Sedovich,_

_Lab technician, Medico labs._

Nick sat at his desk in a silent fog.


	9. Chapter 9

_ Oxford, England - **1912** _

"This might interest you, Professor. It was the drawing at the top that first intrigued me—of the Ashwood harp you talked about—the one cherished as magical by the Cymry. The accompanying story is a Welsh legend passed down orally and finally recorded in the 14th century. It was a hundred years old by then," Carey explained, as they dug through fragile artifacts in the basement of Balliol.

"Tell me," Nicholas asked, setting down the thick Gaelic texts he'd been translating.

"According to this," Carey gently spread out the delicate, well-worn papers and began, "there was once a powerful harp that held the soul of the land and its people. It had been given to a maiden to sing and teach the old ways. A party of Normans came, seeking to convert the Cymry from their paganist-rooted ideals to those of Rome. Among them was a golden-haired knight. A seer warned the maiden that this soldier would soon travel a dark path. The young lady didn't listen and began a love affair with him anyway. When she refused to forsake her heritage, though, he killed her in a rage, then tried to destroy the harp and with it the resolve of the native people.

"Cymry farmers came. The knight still had blood on his hands. They raised their tools and shouted over the loss of their kin. But before they could kill him, he was saved by his commander, who sent the underling to the Holy Wars. The seer felt this was a light punishment and said, 'You will live a long, unhappy life, for there will always be blood on your hands. And, may misfortune follow _anyone_ who tries to harm the harp and its people,' setting a curse upon the soldier."

* * *

_ St. John's Cathedral, Toronto - **1995** _

Schanke was Catholic, but not a churchgoer and hadn't visited St. John's cathedral since he and Knight had caught a fanatic who'd killed three parishioners two years ago. The murderer had tied another to a pageant cross and lit it on fire before they'd finally caught him. Nick had jumped through the flames and saved the young woman. The awful ordeal had been enough to keep anyone away. But now, with insane images and dreadful dreams threatening his sanity, Schanke was desperate to talk to someone who might be able to help.

"Father Rocheforte," he shouted from the entrance, recognizing the priest just beyond a dozen rows of pews. Schanke dropped a few loonies in a collection box before making his way down the center aisle of the expansive church. Melodies from an enthusiastic pipe organist practicing for mass echoed from the mammoth, wooden rafters.

Rocheforte looked up from the altar candle he had been lighting with a curved brass rod, his green eyes warm. "Hello, detective. What a nice surprise," he said.

"Father, do you have a minute?" asked Schanke.

Rocheforte smiled. "Always, for Toronto's finest." He pointed in the direction the detective had come. "But our confessional is by the front doors."

"I remember," mumbled Schanke, thinking of the time Nick had snuck-in one side and tricked him into divulging his sins in the other.

"Pardon?"

"Uh, nothing. I didn't come to confess. I've got some religious questions."

"Of course. Would it hurt to eat a little while we talk? It's lunchtime, and I have some Bratwurst to share. Your favourite, isn't it?"

"One of many," said Schanke with delight.

The priest laughed, leading him behind the altar to the rectory. Rocheforte swung the door wide and amazing kitchen scents wafted forth. He showed the policeman to a modest, seventies-era kitchen of daisy wallpaper, dark wood cupboards and orange countertops, saying, "Make yourself comfortable," and pointing to the table before tending to an avocado-coloured oven.

"Smells fantastic. Did I ever mention I'm Polish Italian? Sausages are part of my heritage—and an absolute _addiction_ in my family. I need a high daily intake just to function," explained Schanke.

Rocheforte smiled and went for some plates.

* * *

_ Gateway Lane, Toronto - **1995** _

In his loft, Nick sipped his glass of cow's blood as he reread the lab report for the hundredth time. "Schanke has evidence. That's why I can't make him forget," he said into the phone.

"Why does that matter?" Natalie asked on the other end.

"It makes all the difference, Nat. For some odd reason, empirical evidence blocks the effects of our hypnotic suggestions." He swept a hand over the furrow in his brow. _How am I going to handle this, massive screw up?_

"So, get into that lab and destroy it," answered Natalie.

Nick sighed. "It's not that simple. Remember the tv reporter at Cop Watch. Even when I had the videos recorded of me as a vampire, she had to consciously submit before I could erase her memory. At this point, Schanke wouldn't trust me to pick up dinner. He must have remembered Galois's ranting and then saw me during Anderson's arrest."

What else had the leader of Montreal said as Nick lay unconscious? And how much had Schanke seen of the vampire with Fredric Andersen?

"What're you going to do?" asked Natalie.

Nick paused. "I've no idea," he said finally, hating to wonder what his partner was doing with his new knowledge.

* * *

_ St. John's Cathedral, Toronto – **1995** _

Rocheforte looked increasingly concerned as Schanke recalled the outlandish things going through his mind. "Remarkable," he said afterward, both men sitting with now empty plates.

"You're _not_ looking at me like I'm batty. So, you believe me?"

Rocheforte smiled. "I've seen more than my share of unbelievable things, detective."

"So, what's going on with Nick? Is he evil? I mean, it looked as if he was going to gnaw on our perp!" exclaimed Schanke, not sure what his partner was, but scared nonetheless. _Was I right all along? Is he a monster?_

The priest shook his head. "No one is simply good or evil, possessing both God's gift of grace and the inherent faults of humanity. _We_ choose to be kind or cruel—as we navigate the wicked temptations of society. I'm not sure what's happening, but I'll always be an admirer of detective Knight. He risked his life to save our Magda. God picked a fine soldier that day to do his work," he said. Rocheforte leaned forward and added, "On earth, there are some very disturbing powers at play. If we're weak, they can try to control us. I wondered if the killer here had been used by such a force."

Schanke shivered. "Disturbing powers? With ooga-booga eyes and Kujo's teeth?" he asked.

"Demons. They've been around for thousands of years. My belief is that a demon was involved in our incidents last year. Demonic energy doesn't die easily, Mr. Schanke. It can transfer. Detective Knight could have been possessed here if a demon was present. It would make him more likely to commit acts of extreme aggression as you saw with Mr. Andersen."

Rocheforte continued in a hushed, need-to-know manner, "I know someone—an ex-priest. I'd never suggest Max Vanderwahl if I thought I could help with this. Archbishop Rolf thinks he's a hack, but I've seen him work miracles with those under the influence of a negative spirit." The priest reached into a cabinet drawer, grabbed a pencil and pad, quickly scribbling down a phone number. "Don't tell anyone I gave you this," he stated, tucking the note into the detective's hand.

Schanke thanked him and shoved it in his coat pocket.

* * *

_ Oxford, England - **1912** _

Nicholas had become visibly paler as Carey read the story.

"Professor," the young man said, noticing his strange reaction, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," answered Nicholas, quickly regaining his composure. Under a mask of professional curiosity, he asked, "Is there anything else to that?"

"Not that I can find. But I'll look tomorrow. Are you ready to stop for the night?" Carey rubbed his eyes and yawned. Keeping the professor's midnight hours was difficult when he had early classes the next day.

Nicholas glanced at his watch and whistled. "Time flies down here, doesn't it? Let me walk you home."

"My mother would be so happy to hear I'm being educated, paid, _and_ well protected," Carey laughed and grabbed his coat. "No need."

"You may chuckle, but I doubt Mrs. Carmichael would want her son roaming about at four o'clock in the morning by his lonesome," declared Nicholas. He'd begun to care for his student as they dug through dusty items together.

"My mother's only wish for me is an Oxford education. It really doesn't matter whatever else I do. She only half-listened when I explained my intent to study history," Carey said to Nicholas. They exited the basement of the Gothically inspired Balliol Hall, passing by several other impressive buildings, juxtaposed examples from each era of English architecture since Oxford's beginning in medieval times.

"It may seem as if she doesn't care but I'm sure she does, very much," replied Nicholas. He knew Maude Carmichael as the tough widow of the Carmichael mining empire, having met her at a couple of functions in London. Her name was always mentioned with high society members. Nicholas also knew that an intense pride for her only child shone beneath a steely persona.

He and Carey walked along a gravel footpath, a shortcut to the boy's residence, discussing the upcoming midterms. So engrossed was Nicholas in the conversation that he failed to hear uneven steps.

A man sprang from behind, grabbing Carey's collar and pressing a knife to his throat. He pulled at the youth's pockets while eying Nicholas threateningly. Finding a sole silver coin, the ratty bag of bones thief cussed, holding his weapon in a wool-gloved hand. "You look like a fancy bloke…and alls you got's a blasted shilling?" He held out his free hand and yelled at Nicholas, "Give me what you got Blondie, or I'll cut his throat!"

The stranger reeked of alcohol. Nicholas tried to catch his gaze and fix on a heartbeat, but he swayed in his drunkenness and looked away. "Take what you wish. But, don't harm the boy!" Nicholas told him instead, then hastily emptied his suitcoat and held up a change purse and pocket watch.

But, as he stepped forward to offer them up, the thief started, his knife tensing against his victim's skin. "Back off and drop 'em!" the drunk slurred.

A trickle of blood ran down Carey's throat. The student panted in fright, pleading silently with his professor for rescue.

His fear stoked hot fury in Nicholas. "Let him go!" he rasped through sharpening fangs, his eyes lighting from within.

The thief looked into his fearsome face and pulled the youth closer as a shield, his knees shaking in fright.

Nicholas moved in a blur, wrenching his pupil away, while the stranger flailed defensively, carving thick marks into the vampire's arm. Nicholas hissed and shoved him hard into a retaining wall, the man impacting the stone blocks with a crunching thud. He slumped to the ground, motionless.

Carey's round eyes, which had been glued on his teacher's transformation, went immediately to the man. "Is-is he alive?" he asked shakily.

"Yes," replied Nicholas, detecting a light but unsteady heartbeat from the body. Guilt at his lack of restraint flared as he cradled his wounded arm. He hadn't meant to use so much force. Until recently, unsavoury ones like this had been prey. Nicholas had dispatched so many and felt justified in doing so.

But those times were over.

Since he'd mistakenly killed an innocent.

It was a story that began with a crush on a ballet dancer and, through Lacroix's trickery, ended in her murder. Nicholas realized then that he was far too wicked to be a judge of guilt or innocence. Since then, he'd been trying desperately to act human and had forsaken killing altogether. How devastating it was that he could lapse into his bestial self so quickly. The unnatural light left his eyes and his teeth retracted.

"What was that just now? How?" Carey's eyes were teary. He knelt by the stranger. The man's skull bled sluggishly over the path.

"He needs a doctor," said Nicholas, gathering the man up swiftly but gently.

"Answer me! How did you do all of that?" the boy demanded.

"I'm a vampire," sighed Nicholas. "You read the legend. I am the knight in the story, and while I didn't kill the maiden, I _am_ cursed—not by a soothsayer, but by my own choices. I've been looking through those manuscripts to cure myself. Please run home, Carey. Tell no one what you saw here."

"Cursed or not. Y-You saved my life. I'm indebted to you, professor. And I'll help you find your cure."

"We'll talk later. Go home fast where it's safe," Nicholas told him.

Carey nodded and ran.

* * *

_ The 96th Police Precinct, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick walked past the front desk at the shop, brushing past Brody Gibson clumsily trying to engage secretary Julia Nellis in conversation. He silently applauded this kid's bravery. Most newbies turned to goop around that woman. Her chocolate skin was flawless. Not to mention, those gigantic doe-eyes and button nose were nearly as cute as they come. Nick didn't stop to say hello to either, however, before finding his chair. His inbox had expanded, so he began to rummage.

Captain Cohen marched out of her office, setting her sights on him. "Knight! I need you in my office," she commanded and trooped back. Nick followed cautiously.

"Sit," she ordered from behind her big work desk. When he'd pulled up a metal chair, she began, "Since both you and Schanke concur that the Trinity Bellwoods Park murder was likely gang-related, I'm going to give the case over to the Organized Crime division."

Nick nodded.

"Keep on the Summer's case, hopefully, something moves with the composite sketches we just released. There's one more item to discuss." Amanda Cohen was a tough cookie most days, but tonight her face was compassionate. "Schanke has asked for a change of partner."

Nick was unsurprised and quiet. He'd faced rejection before—usually with torches and pitchforks.

"I offered him the day shift with Mina Sterling. She's new…and could really use the experience he has to offer. He—accepted." She buffered this with a sympathetic smile.

"Yes, mam'," replied Nick, knowing something had to give. He hadn't thought it'd be so soon.

"You're an excellent detective. Your instincts are strong. There are a few items, however, to discuss." Cohen straightened, her stoic, all-business self once more. "Knight—you go on tangents left and right, leaving everyone hanging, wondering where you've disappeared to. It's irresponsible. You don't call for back up when you should."

"Understood.'"

"That stops _now_. No leeway, no special privileges. You've been lucky so far. Follow standard procedures, period. I can't have sloppy police work and loose strings getting us in a sling. And, a perp cut free because of it. Consider this a _final_ warning…and _toe the line_."

"Got it." Nick felt claustrophobic, for he loved this version of himself but sensed the curtains were closing.

"Be careful from now on. Keep in touch. Watch yourself and call for help when something comes up. For now, you can work alone. I've got to think about the right fit for you. You're dismissed."

"I'll be careful," Nick nodded again before getting up and leaving.

* * *

_ The National Intruder Headquarters, Toronto - **1995** _

Leilah gave Lindsay an exciting mission...to the Toronto Reference Library hunting for old media reports of Knight's previous cases. At his long face, the woman smirked. "Research is what journalism is, Martin!" she teased before he trudged out of the Intruder.

Leilah rang detective Wright soon after. "Hey Garth, anything new at the 96th?" This officer despised Knight for whatever reason, and she was happy to use it to her advantage.

"Only Schanke racing out of here like he had rocket booster undies. Hasn't been seen with his partner more than five minutes in the last two weeks. Guess Donnie boy's finally tired of working with the Knightmare. I know I would be!"

"What happened?" she asked.

Wright snickered. "We _all_ know why he's avoiding Knight. That guy's collared one too many bad guys and Schanke's embarrassed."

"So, Knight acts like he has shining armour, does he?"

"The shiniest. Don's got years on him as a detective. Rumour is Knight only had a few in Chicago before here. It's got to be humiliating."

"Doesn't sound good. What's next for Detective Knight? New partner?"

"Don't know. There was a secret poll going around the homicide detective's ring, Ms. Beck."

"A poll?"

"Yeah, to see how long those two would stay together. Most figured it wouldn't last a year. I said two, knowing Donnie wouldn't give up that quick. He's too bullheaded. I'm not sure what the tipping point was but it must've been big. Their partnership has officially sailed into the sunset." Wright laughed again. "We'll find out why sooner or later. Lucky me, I won seventy bucks. Cohen put Schanke with our newest member, Mina Sterling, this morning. Good luck to him, she's her own ball of wax!"

* * *

_The Raven Nightclub - Toronto, **1995**_

"N'inquiète pas, mon cher (Don't worry, my dear). This arrangement is better for everyone. Mr. Schanke gets a partner that he can teach and mould," said Janette, as they lounged at the bar of her club. She paused to take a sip of her human laced wine, then caressed Nick's whiskery cheek. "You can be free to investigate as you wish, and not fear constant exposure. It's a win-win. Cheers!" She smiled, raising her glass. When he didn't respond, the vampiress clinked it against his untouched one sitting on the countertop.

"I need to know what he's thinking. I have to talk to him."

" _Non_ , absolutely not," replied Janette, shaking her head. "He's figured out you're not human. It's done. He'll never understand. Let Lacroix _convince_ your friend he imagined everything. He did a good job last time if I remember. Didn't even have to use his powers." She glanced at her diamond-encrusted watch. "He's recording now, but I'll contact him before sunrise."

"No—there's a little more to it," Nick winced, not enthused about telling her, placing a kiss on her delicate hand instead.

"What else?" demanded Janette, ignoring his charms.

"Schanke found some of Galois's elixir," replied Nick.

Her eyes widened. "Lacroix won't let him live! It'll be nearly impossible to make him forget. Nicholas, this is very, very bad. _Bon sang_ (for heaven's sake), life with you is never boring," she said, upending her drink.

"You can't tell our master. I'll take care of it on my own."

"I don't have to, you know that. He'll find out eventually. You need to leave. _Ta vie ne tient qu'à un fil ici!_ (Your life here is hanging by a thread). Don't trust your police buddy, Nicholas. Never trust a human. What about Galois's serum. Have you got it?

"I pretended to be Schanke and phoned the lab he'd sent it to. They're shipping it to me."

"Destroy it, as soon as you can. Don't get any ideas." She wagged a finger at him. "That poison nearly killed you. It is _not_ a _panacée_ (cure-all)."

"I won't," he vowed. _But I might squirrel it away for later examination._

"I may be crazy to leave this little nest," she gestured to her pride and joy, which had sheltered many strays and mistreated souls. Having been sold to a brothel in her human years, Janette understood what it was like to be treated as nothing. But, there was a drive inside for something new. This place could go on without her at this point. "But if you move on, I may come along…if you ask _nicely_ ," she said, tipping her head towards his lips and kissing them unhurriedly, "and see where it takes us."

Nick smiled as they broke apart. "Thank you for that. But if I go, it'll be alone. At least for a while," he replied. There was a time he would have killed for the relationship they'd once had. Nick didn't have time to examine what had changed for him.

* * *

_ Dudley St., Toronto - **1995** _

Natalie buzzed Nick into her building upon hearing his voice on her intercom. Walking up the stairs, he tried to recall the last time he'd dropped by spontaneously. It was Valentine's Day. Having gotten wrapped up in the idea of it, he'd wanted to kiss her perfect lips and feel some human warmth. His head pounded suddenly, the worry over Schanke getting the best of him, blooming into the first headache of his undead life.

 _Did I kiss her?_ he thought as the throbbing continued. It was hard to think past it. Nick massaged his forehead with the heel of his palm and forced himself to recall the act of detachment he'd put on at Azure. He wouldn't have been able to do that if he'd kissed Nat's lips just hours before. Would he?

He knocked at unit 203, knowing she was there, her heartbeat so familiar that it sang from amongst the many in the complex. It was as much a part of Natalie as the delectable smell of cloves and cinnamon. His headache dissipated, as he caught a whiff of Nat's soothing scent.

Nick heard light footsteps come closer, and the door opened to reveal her loveliness. He smiled, even as his heart sank, hating himself for what he was about to do.

"Didn't expect you tonight," said Natalie, opening the door fully.

"I was in the neighbourhood, and thought I'd drop by," Nick said, stepping in.

"This neighbourhood? When are you _ever_ in my neighbourhood? Any new vampire clubs I should know about? Should I stock up on scarves? Will there be any Sparkles around looking for my neck?" she snorted, shutting the door.

Nick attempted a grin, but it flopped. "Not quite. And, it was Spark that you met at the Raven."

"Sparkle sounds trendier. You should all sparkle, don't you think? Easier to spot."

"That's ridiculous. Never suggest it to anyone who cranks out drippy vampire stories," he told her.

"Okay. I confess that was my lame attempt to cheer you up, grouchy pants." Natalie pointed to her couch. "I can tell you're upset, still tough sailing with Schanke? Have a seat, tell me about it. I know we haven't seen each other lately. They've got me working swing shifts until the new coroner ar—"

"Nat," Nick interrupted, pressing a finger to her mouth. Impulsively, he traced the perfect peaks of her upper lip. They were as warm as imagined—and so inviting. Drawn forward, he pulled back instead. Giving his head a shake, Nick forced himself to concentrate on the issues at hand, saying, "I dropped by for a reason. It's only partly about Schanke."

"I'll talk to him, help him understand. He won't tell anyone in the meantime."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Don's a level-headed detective, who's not going to do anything rash without solid proof.

"He went to Lacroix with his suspicions last time," countered Nick. "Another visit would be the breaking point."

"Lacroix explained away his worries expertly last time. Schank'll need something more definitive…or he'd already be talking to one of you, right now. My guess is that his theories aren't fully formed."

"I hope so," shrugged Nick. "But whatever he's on to—it's got him spooked. I don't think a heart to heart would change that. He asked the captain for a change of partner."

Nick took in the wild auburn ringlets of Natalie's casual hairstyle. They looked shiny and touchable. He had the wild impulse to stroke them, grasping one and letting it go immediately.

"New partner? What did Cohen say?" asked Natalie, eying him oddly.

Nick blinked; his daydream broken. Leaning into the couch cushions, he said, "She put him with Mina Sterling."

"Sterling? The new girl with the motormouth?"

"Yeah, it's a match. Not a bad thing at all. We were always going in opposite directions."

"But that's what makes you such a great pair. You don't think alike. You work cases from different angles and see things you wouldn't have alone. You've got solid arrest numbers to show for it." She poked him with a finger. "So what if you don't get along all the time."

"Our partnership, like our friendship's a done deal. I've told you before—nothing lasts when humans learn the truth about me."

Natalie tilted up his dragging chin with a thumb, unconvinced. "Hello. As I've said before…I know about you and I'm still here."

"You're exceptional…and amazing, Nat. Things are getting complicated at work. Schanke knows too much, and I can't make him forget without his consent. Even Lacroix may not be able to. He doesn't let resistors who've seen our true nature live to tell the tale."

"I can convince Schanke to—"

"It's too late. He's frightened. In my experience, it's best to leave. Schanke's in danger if I stay. I'm connected to Lacroix, who knows my emotions and when we're near, my thoughts. He'll find out. I can lead him away from here."

"If you go, I go," she said quickly, then added awkwardly, "What I _mean_ is—what would I do without my fave immortal test subject?"

"No. Lacroix would think we're more than friends. He'd never give you a moment of peace." _But it'll kill me to leave you behind_ , Nick added silently, the idea like a punch to the solar plexus.

 _Is she more than my dearest human friend?_ he thought of the strong feelings he was having parting ways. He'd grown attached to mortals before, but never like this.

Nick's head renewed its throbbing, as he tried once more to remember the Valentine's kiss that may or may not have happened.


	10. Chapter 10

_ Beaune, France - **1912** _

Nicholas had found a flat in the village of Beaune in the province of Burgundy. It was a temporary arrangement, a one-room space above the Rue des Tonneliers that cut through the middle of town. Tourists flocked to the cafés, boutiques and boulangeries in the town centre, some constructed of great grey stones with roof tiles in patchwork patterns, others made of brilliant white plaster and earth-toned shingles. Not far was a Roman temple still standing from the first century, drawing further crowds.

Nicholas couldn't wait to move to the solitary vineyard he'd purchased in the nearby hills. The deal hadn't gone through as quickly as he would have liked. Having left hurriedly from England lest questions come up about the skirmish with the thief, he hadn't been able to set up a new life without some bureaucratic bumps.

Leaning back in a wobbly rocking chair near a flickering fire, he examined his post. There were two letters, one from his master and another from Carey Carmichael. First, he opened the letter from Lacroix.

_Dearest Nicholas,_

_It's unfortunate to hear that your teaching foray didn't work out as planned. I wish that you'd listened to my warnings about your new lifestyle, specifically your choice of nourishment. Undoubtedly, it led to a confused state as it is the diet of lower-class creatures, not more evolved souls such as we. The 'incident' surely wouldn't have happened had you fed as you should._

_It's reassuring that the young man was not resistant to persuasion and that nothing was left unresolved. I'd rather see you with family, but at present, our group in Paris is disbanding. It seems there's a hunter afoot. F.T. had his residence in the deuxième arrondissement burned to the ground. Fortunately, he escaped, but not so lucky were his children. I'll call on you when I'm able. It's not the case of safety in numbers at the moment. Be wise, be wary._

_Yours in blood,_

_Lacroix_

Nicholas shivered and tossed the letter in the fire. _Always running, always persecuted, I tire of it._ He'd lied to his master in a previous letter about having hypnotized Carey Carmichael. He hadn't had the heart to make Carey forget him, but it had worked out, as the boy was good to his word about looking for a cure. They'd corresponded several times about the topic already.

Nicholas read Carey's newest letter eagerly. It was a window into a normal existence, and he longed for normalcy every waking moment. Carey wrote that everyone missed their professor's impassioned talks. He'd not found anything in the remaining Welsh manuscripts and was going to research other cultures for vampire lore. Nicholas wrote back that very night, warning him never to speak of vampires even discreetly. Displaying such knowledge was a very bad idea, one that could get Carey killed.

Nicholas kept in touch frequently after that, making sure his favourite pupil wasn't putting himself in harm's way. A friendship developed slowly between them. Carey divulged that he'd met a young lady whom he planned to marry, mentioning that even his "tough-as-an-old-leather-shoe" mother approved of her. Nicholas laughed aloud, placing this last letter in the fireplace. As the flames consumed it, he felt an equally hot hunger spark to life in his chest. He wanted to live so much like a human that he was trying to prolong periods between feeding. Every time, however, his nature clawed at him with spiteful reminders of its needs.

He decided to see the butcher he'd found upon arriving, determined to survive on animal blood, as he'd started at Oxford. Nicholas had never heard of one of his kind switching solely to this particular diet. It was something they did only in emergency situations, for night dwellers such as he craved human blood continuously. He'd find out if survival on a substitute was possible.

He had to. There would be no more death on his hands…no more taking anything from mortals.

Exiting his flat silently, he locked the door.

* * *

_ The National Intruder Headquarters, Toronto – **1995** _

"We need to talk to detective Schanke," Leilah said, propping her head over one of the walls of Lindsay's cubicle. "I got a tip that he and Knight are no longer partnering. If we could get him to spill about it, bet it be good."

Martin swivelled his roller chair her way, pulling off chunky brown reading glasses and setting them aside. "I was thinking of something a little more 'out there'," he suggested.

"Like what? Did you hit pay dirt at the library?" asked Leilah, her face lighting up.

"Not exactly. I didn't go. I thought about how to bring you up to speed on a few things."

Leilah studied him. His confident vibe spoke of secrets. She kicked herself for believing he was a greenhorn. "You know something," she said.

"Can we go somewhere less public?" he asked, eying the crowd busily pumping out tomorrow's edition. "I'll explain."

"Explain what?"

"It's private." He rose and whispered, "Trust me. Your readers will eat it up. You'll have the exclusive. None of the schleps around here can write like you do."

"Don't kiss my perfect ass!" fumed Leilah.

"If it wasn't harassment, I'd say that's a _wonderful_ idea…with your permission, of course," Lindsay responded slickly.

Leilah sneered. "Your sleaze doesn't work on me! I don't mingle with douchebags!"

"Ouch," Lindsay answered.

"Like anyone would give away an exclusive. I trusted you with my biggest lead, Martin! God knows what your agenda is!" huffed Leilah.

"Don't be so hasty to paint me as the enemy. I had to know you were committed to the truth about Knight."

"What do you know about him?"

"More than I can say here. Please, give me a chance. You'll get the kudos for anything you choose to write afterwards."

"You're damned right! Ten minutes, no more," she stated. Lindsay was acting really bizarre; however, she'd never turned away from bizarreness when a story was on the line.

And...if he tried to screw with her, he was getting a snakeskin boot to the balls.

The two went to a diner down the street. Leilah noticed Lindsay survey the patrons carefully, following him as he picked a table in an empty section. When they'd sat down, she eyed him grumpily and blurted, "Spill!"

"Calm down, please. I admit I'm not _exactly_ who I said I was. Writing is my day job, mostly freelancing. I travel a lot. But it's very true that I admire your work," said Lindsay. He flagged a server down, who came by quickly. "Are you hungry?" he asked Leilah with a smile. "I'm buying. I hear the chicken's good here."

"No thanks." She scowled at him. "Just coffee—with cream," Leilah told the waitress, who nodded and moved on. Her glare as she turned back to Lindsay could have roasted foul on its own. "Tell. Me. What. You. Know. _Now_!"

"Okay, okay. I know you've seen a lot. The Intruder has some very interesting scoops. Mariah Carey simply _can't_ be pregnant with Bobby Brown's quadruplets. What's Whitney saying? At first, I just dismissed the tabloid as another random rag. But then I read your articles. They were compelling and truthful. No extraterrestrial exchange students at York University or three-headed rodents pilfering city garbage. I noticed your takes on the 'Murderous Blood Drive' and 'Killer Stalker of Toronto' particularly. I thought you'd stumbled onto something."

"What're you talking about?"

Martin smirked at Leilah's cranky expression, her emotions always on full display. "Knight, of course. He was featured in both articles, and now you're investigating him. You're right to, Leilah. He's strange."

"And?"

"And, he's got a dangerous secret. Open your mind. Knight doesn't come out during the day. Doesn't get injured or seem to eat. But he's a drinker with a constant supply of blood in the fridge? Leilah—he's a vampire," whispered Lindsay.

"A what? A _vampire_? What a load! Do you think I'm an idiot? I know I work for the Intruder, but seriously they exaggerate half the stories they print."

"More than half."

"Three quarters. But, no one believes it's _actual_ news, just entertainment. I'm trying to change all that, one good article at a time. I report facts, not dime-store scary shit. Let me guess, big outfits like the Star turned down your crazy ideas so you came to us."

"It doesn't matter. Listen, I've been tracking and killing the undead since I was a teen. My father was a hunter before me and my grandfather as well. Vampires exist. I saw one murder a young man with my own eyes for no reason other than hunger. They are disgusting monsters hiding in human skins—creatures of pleasure, who do nothing that doesn't serve their own twisted purposes."

"Twisted purposes, eh? Knight's a cop. He's weird with a _bad_ hero complex, but he saved his partner."

"Knight may play the hero, but that's not his true self. There isn't a shred of goodness in any of them. Must get a kick out of fooling people as a homicide detective when he's the worse kind of killer there is. My family has crossed paths with him before. It was a brutal affair. Haven't caught up with him since. He's always been a step ahead," replied Lindsay, placing a tan leather briefcase on the table, snapping it open and withdrawing a leather-bound journal. He pulled out a sepia-toned photograph from within. "This belonged to my grandfather," he told her, as he handed it over.

Leilah's eyes went wide as flying saucers, as she recognized Knight in an oddly-cut suit seated amongst others who were similarly dressed. One of them held a plaque that read _Historical Department, University of Oxford 1912_.

"What happened?" the journalist asked.

"You trust me now, hmm?" Lindsay teased with a wicked grin. "If I tell you, will you expose him in the Intruder? With your talent, you've gathered quite a fanbase. I'm sure you can convince people these creatures exist. The more knowledge we can give the public, the fewer places these things have to hide. I would pay you extremely well, of course."

Leilah ignored his oozing bravado and said, "We'll see."

* * *

_ Sandybrook Blvd., Toronto - **1995** _

Schanke reclined in his easy chair, a rerun of _The Littlest Hobo_ blaring on the tube at his feet. Strange scenes swam in his mind. He saw his kidnapper with a greenish-gold glare and lengthy incisors. Then, there was a flash of the Nightcrawler, who claimed to be Nick's father and snarled like a lion with molten orange eyes. His teeth were too long as well. Schanke remembered Nick snarling similarly at Fred Andersen. His mind began to produce terrifying images of Nick with blazing irises and fiendish fangs.

Schanke's head hurt as he tried to fit these creatures into the real world. He thought about phoning the ex-priest Rocheforte had suggested, but he couldn't. The talk at St. John's had freaked him out enough. _Could Nick really be possessed?_ He certainly had some supernatural seeming characteristics. Schanke had seen the guy move with such speed he'd blamed it on his mind playing tricks. Knight could be in one place and show up in another in an instant. He also had amazing strength, having grabbed Andersen with one hand and hoisted him like a teacup Chihuahua.

Schanke sensed there was more about his ex-partner that he hadn't yet pieced together. He rubbed his temples and concentrated on making the fragments of his visions coalesce into something understandable. A scene warbled forth and became clear.

Michel Galois was on the floor. The Nightcrawler hovered over him with a wooden spike, threatening to plunge it in his chest for hurting Nick. The murderer sobbed and blubbered for his life. His pitchy voice echoed...

" _It was for me…_ "

"… _a mortality potion…one ingredient_ , _blood of a vampire…"_

_"Nicholas is… rare find."_

"Blood of a vampire," repeated Schanke, his heart blasting off. The phone rang and he leapt out of his chair. "Holy hot dogs with hot sauce! Nick isn't normal!" the detective shouted, remembering his former suspicions. "I knew it!" he hollered, no less petrified.

* * *

_ Caledon, Ontario, **1995** _

The stranger's home was an hour west of Toronto in a rural outskirt. Schanke wondered why he'd agreed to meet an informant way out here, as he passed the odd twisting driveway in the heavily treed area. This snitch had insisted he had info on a case, but it was doubtful, as he'd been very reluctant to give details on the phone. Still, the detective had to check it out, part of the job. A luxury SUV whizzed past, while he struggled to find the address in a pelting rainstorm.

Twenty soggy minutes later, he finally located his destination. A spiky, iron fence skirted several acres of the property, a gargantuan mansion visible on a distant hillside. He pressed the buzzer at the pewter monogrammed ML entrance gate. A roving CCT camera shifted to capture him leaning out of the window before the gate spontaneously opened. Rolling up the long, winding driveway, Schanke saw mastiffs on steroids pacing back and forth in a chain-link kennel.

When he'd reached an area marked as visitor parking, he halted his sedan and sprinted through the continuous downpour to the door. Sucking in a calming breath as the dogs barked about wanting to take a chunk out of his butt, he pressed the doorbell. More cameras swivelled over to scrutinized him.

A muscular man came to the door in a dark green tracksuit with a black stripe down each pant leg, as if he'd just been working out. "Welcome," said the stranger, his voice as smooth and sticky as his dark brown hair. "Thanks for taking my call. Martin Lindsay," the man said, smiling with the whitest of teeth and offering a palm. When Schanke shook it, he grinned wider and said, "Come in."

Lindsay took his guest's coat and led him through the first floor, commenting about the poor weather. Schanke was barely listening, as he gawked at the luxurious furnishings. Everything was trendy, unblemished and flawlessly arranged. _Looks like the Bombay Company set up shop in here,_ he thought of the buttercup satin curtains, leopard print rugs and hand-carved cherrywood furniture in the rooms they passed by—not to mention the extra-large oil paintings of desert landscapes in the seemingly endless hallway. _Myra would die for all of this!_

Lindsay finally halted at a study. Stuffed jaguar and gazelle trophies cast their cold, glass eyes on Schanke. This space was as OCD as the rest, not a paper askew or a used coffee cup. The man motioned for him to take a seat in an armchair. Schanke obliged, sitting down in the most comfortable thing he'd ever parked his fanny on.

"Like it? Had it brought in from Milan," Lindsay said, of the detective's dreamy expression. "This is my colleague Leilah Beck," said Lindsay, gesturing to the woman in a turquoise pleated skirt and glitzy gold top with fishnet stockings and three-inch heels sitting cross-legged on a caramel coloured sectional.

"We've met," replied Schanke, eyeing her suspiciously. He hadn't forgotten their first encounter. Glancing around at the books lining a single wall, bizarre titles stuck out like _Mystical Monsters, Nosferatu: The Hidden Menace,_ and _Truth in Mythology._ There was a corner fireplace, unlit with nary a log or stick of kindling. A painting of an unattractive lady hung on the wall, scowling. In all, the place was cozy as Hell.

"We called you to discuss something very serious," said Lindsay.

"What could it be with Ms. Beck involved—Sasquatch speed-dating, interspecies breeding? Is Mariah Carey having baby antelope now? I'm not a fan of wild ideas."

"We got off to a bad start, but trust me we need to talk," urged Leilah.

"The lives of innocent people are in danger," added Lindsay

"How so?" asked Schanke.

"We have information about your partner," said Leilah.

"Ex-partner," replied Schanke.

"That's good news. May I ask what happened?" prodded Lindsay.

"None of your business."

Lindsay continued anyway, "Have you noticed anything _weird_ about him?"

When Schanke didn't respond, the man flashed another megawatt grin. "There's my answer! Detective Knight isn't what he seems. His kind are dangerous creatures."

"His _kind_? Is he a Martian now? Are they invading the police force like they've _apparently_ invaded city hall—or isn't that true Ms. Beck?"

"You're an Intruder reader, I knew it! The city hall stuff's baloney, my co-worker Mo's idea. I only deal with the facts, I promise. Knight's a vampire, Mr. Schanke. We've got proof. In here." Leilah held up a thick, tattered book with several photos jammed inside. "Martin's family has been hunting them for nearly a century. And chasing your partner just as long. Knight isn't even his real name. Would you like to know what it is?"

"A vampire? That sounds about right for the Intruder," deflected Schanke _._ He wasn't about to trust them even with what he'd already gathered. "Are you gonna try and destroy a cop's career with wild assumptions? Let me guess, you're still on the trail of a blood cult, Ms. Beck? Why don't you save reality news reporting for those who live in it?" He rose to leave.

"Please, Mr. Schanke. We're not lying. It can't hurt to look at a few pictures and read a little about your partner, can it? Isn't it your job to find out the truth?" begged Leilah.

"You're a topnotch detective with a stellar arrest record, we checked," said Lindsay, laying it on thick. "Could you live with yourself knowing you let the biggest bad guy of all through your net?"

Schanke sighed. _What have you done, Nick?_ he wondered before grunting, "Give it here," and holding out his hand.

Lindsay nodded, as Leilah handed the book over. "Great. I have many volumes on the undead if that piques your interest. As someone who has taken an oath to protect the innocent, I'm confident you'll help us when you're through."


	11. Chapter 11

_ Beaune, France, **1912** _

Nicholas could fall into no more than a light doze. Pig's blood sat in his stomach like a stone. _Note to self, for some reason this does not agree like cow,_ he thought with a moan _._ He'd been experimenting with a bovine diet back in England and, while it tasted as tangy and lifeless as dirt, it'd never threatened to make a reappearance.

Nicholas was amazed he hadn't been sick already, his insides churning to tell him he still might be. Lying on a meagre bed, he stared at the ceiling, listening to a nearby heartbeat with drowsy senses. It was daybreak when the need for sleep clouded his thoughts and sunlight caged him. He hoped the individual would leave lest they wish to encounter a malnourished and very unhappy soul.

The door burst open suddenly, kicked in by a burly man with a tangle of ashy hair and a shaggy beard. Pure white, morning beams poured in. The stranger stood framed in the glow, aiming a crossbow for his target.

Nicholas squinted at the brightness and bared his fangs with a hiss.

The hunter was undaunted, pulling the trigger and sending a bolt zooming forth.

Nicholas's wits may have been dulled by the dawn, but his speed made up for it. Seeing the object shooting his way, he hit the ground. The bolt ruffled his hair, missing by a centimetre and lodging into the headboard behind. He fixed burning eyes on the hunter.

The man advanced casually and confidently.

Nicholas rushed forward, hitting his bulk at full speed and knocking him down with a loud slam. When the hunter tried to rise, Nicholas grabbed his skull and connected it with the floorboards. Somehow, he remembered his vow of mercy through a crimson-hazed rage and managed to knock the human unconscious rather than kill him. After, he wrapped a heavy, dark cloak about his shoulders, pulling the hood over his head, then took the linens from the bed, ripped them and wound strips around his hands. When he'd finished, Nicholas grunted low, very displeased, and ran out into the early rays through empty streets to the farmers' fields on the outskirts of town.

He navigated between rows of stubborn stalks as 8-foot sunflowers refused to let him pass lightly. Swatting them left and right, he barrelled through to the blessed shelter of a shed. Amongst shovels, hoes and buckets, the vampire hid, while light poured from cracks in the ramshackle walls. Nicholas pushed his back up against the farthest, shady corner.

Glowing, criss-cross patterns shifted over the floor as the sun rose further and further, making it impossible to sleep. He changed his position several times to avoid them. Examining his mummy-like fingers, he attempted to peel back the strips. When flesh came off as well, he bit back a scream. Heat poured from the raw patches of skin, the pain immeasurable.

Nicholas decided how best to make his way out of Burgundy while shaking in torment.

* * *

_ Gateway Lane, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick sat on the couch at his loft sipping a glass of steer blood and cringing at the suffering endured nearly a century ago in the French countryside. He'd hopped a train to Dijon, then Switzerland that very evening…

Nicholas thought of Carey Carmichael as he travelled. He couldn't disappear without releasing the boy from his search, so he sent a brief telegram upon arriving in Geneva. Carey responded, telling of a possible breakthrough and urged his professor to return, offering his home as a refuge. After much thought and the irresistible pull of progress, Nicholas decided to double back to England.

At the sound of the phone ringing, Nick shook off the past and leaned back on his couch to answer it. "Hello."

"Detective Knight?" said a woman on the other end.

"Who's this?"

"Leilah Beck from the National Intruder. An admirer of yours," the voice replied sweetly.

"I've got no comments on anything," he grumbled, wondering how she'd managed to get his number.

The woman giggled. "I doubt that. I found something at the Human Touch headquarters. A syringe. Also, your partner's told me some _very_ interesting things about you."

 _More syringes._ Nick barely stopped a growl from emerging, his upset rising as the fact that his ex-partner had blabbed to a reporter sank in. He'd hoped Schanke, like Natalie, might still come around and accept him.

"I know what you are. And I wanna hear your side. What's it like being a creature of the night? I could use a quote before I break the biggest story of my career."

"I've got no idea what you're talking about," responded Nick with an angry rasp around his fangs.

"Meet me and we'll talk," Leilah replied.

He listened as Ms. Beck rattled off an address.

* * *

_ London, England - **1912** _

Nicholas lay on the lumpy mattress in the servant's quarters, trying to collect his thoughts, while fingering his ticket to America. He was due to board a ship in Southampton tomorrow evening, having booked a ride on the biggest, newest passenger liner headed to New York.

There was a determined knock at the door.

"Professor?" said a muffled voice.

Nicholas got up to answer it.

"Professor!" Carey grinned, as the door swung wide.

Nicholas smiled back and shook the boy's hand. "Come in," he said.

"It's good to see you're alright. I worried after your telegram."

"You needn't have. Thank you for offering me shelter for the day."

Carey shook his head. "No thanks are necessary. I'm so glad you could come. Today is my engagement party. It'll be a whole day affair. I was hoping to introduce you to my Selina at dinner."

Nicholas frowned. Although he'd have liked to meet the woman Carey spoke so fondly of, he felt pressed to leave as soon as possible, to put the entire Atlantic ocean between any hunters and him. "I'm sorry. I'd truly love to, but I'm afraid I must leave at nightfall. I'd like to use a few morning hours to examine your discoveries if possible."

"Of course. They're in my personal study. I'm excited to show you what I've found! But I only wish my fiancée could meet my favourite teacher and my inspiration."

"What have you told Selina?"

"Nothing sir that might endanger her. Just that my wish to be a scholar of history started with your classes." Carey put his hands together, pleading, "How about now? Just a quick introduction, I promise."

Nicholas smirked, for the boy looked much the same as before when begging to be a research assistant at Balliol. Despite weariness creeping into his bones, Nicholas conceded, "I guess that would be alright. But," he glanced at his pocket watch, "it's five o'clock in the morning. Surely she's still sleeping."

"I'll wake her. She would be upset if I didn't. There's a small smoking-room past the servant's kitchen on the left. We can meet there. I'll bring my work to study afterwards."

Nicholas nodded. "This meeting must be brief," he said, sensing sunrise was near. After, he would take the research and hole up for the day in the darkness and safety of his room.

Carey nodded and went to fetch her.

* * *

_ The Human Touch Foundation, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick was apprehensive as he rolled up to the location that the journalist had given him. He would commandeer the syringe then try to convince her to submit to a memory wipe. Not a great plan, but other than calling Lacroix for a heavier-handed approach, it was the best he had.

"The Human Touch. Of all the places to meet," Nick said angrily, exiting his car. He despised this place. Nothing good for him had ever happened here.

The once boarded loading bay had recently been freed. Testing the handle, he found it was unlocked. Inside, towers of powdered milk and grain still lay on pallets, more rancid than ever. Nick scrunched his nose and made his way through.

He didn't have to go far before encountering an overly made-up woman with false eyelashes, teeth and hair sporting a chartreuse, velvet suit.

"Leilah Beck at your service. How's it going?" she asked brightly.

Nick eyed her narrowly, then tried to catch her gaze, but the journalist refused to make eye contact. _She knows not to look at me._ He wondered what else she knew about vampires. "Give me the syringe," he grunted.

"You want that gross thing? It's yours," Leilah answered, striding forward, her burnt orange, bedazzled pumps clicking on concrete. When they were face to face, she showed him the trophy in her palm.

The liquid inside was clear.

"Interesting isn't it? Not exactly as described— _that_ one went to Detective Schanke," she said, uncapping the syringe and waving it in his face. "Would you like to know what's in this?"

 _What the hell's going on?_ Nick thought, alarm bells ringing. "You won't be able to touch me with that, I promise you."

"Wasn't planning to," Leilah said—and she pressed the plunger.

The contents ejected in a singular stream.

Nick whipped his head to the side, the fluid narrowly missing his eyes and splashing over his cheek. He hissed as it burned, a puffy pink welt rising immediately.

_Holy water._

"Get down, Leilah!" yelled a voice.

Martin Lindsay darted out from behind a tower of food, while the woman dropped to the floor muttering an 'Our Father'.

Nick recovered from the shock, locking glowing eyes on Lindsay.

But it was too late.

Lindsay had his crossbow up. A wooden bolt shot forth hitting Nick in the chest with a sickening crunch. He fell back, grasping feebly at the deeply embedded stake, his breathing ragged as scarlet burbled freely from his mouth.

* * *

_ London, England, **1912** _

Nicholas paced in the smoking-room for a full ten minutes before footsteps sounded down the hall. He recognized Carey's laughter as well and snickered to himself. _There's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream_ , he mused, borrowing from Thomas Moore.

The door opened a crack, and Carey pressed his head through. "Professor. I'm pleased to present to you my Selina," he said, grinning ear to ear.

Nicholas wished to share in the enthusiasm, but something was wrong. His excellent hearing picked up the increasing pace of the boy's heart. Carey was not as happy as he seemed. A bead of sweat ran down his brow.

Nicholas took a step back.

"Professor?" said the young man, pushing the door fully ajar. In his hand was an ornate metal cross with a wooden spike jutting from the middle, which he raised like a shield.

Behind him, a midnight-haired huntress stood with a longbow at the ready.

"This is my Selina. Isn't she lovely?" said Carey taking a step forward.

Nicholas turned his head from the religious symbol, his heart pounding madly and the beast emerging with his fear. Luminescent eyes downcast, he said, "Why?" through his fangs.

"Why did I betray you to her clan back in France? Or why are we going to kill you now, Professor? Which is it?" asked Carey.

Nicholas's yellow-green irises fixed on the boy, but he didn't answer, flinching instead as his vision teared up before the cross. He was forced to turn away again.

Carey smiled. "Selina came to me after you left. I asked too many questions about your kind, just like you warned me not to. It attracted the attention of her order. She told me more about you than I could have imagined, and I couldn't help but believe it after the violence I'd witnessed. Isn't she incredible?"

Selina was still poised to release an arrow from her bow, a sleek shadow in pants and knee-high laced boots the shade of coal. Slim and deadly, she was a beautiful venomous snake.

"How could I not fall in love?" explained Carey.

 _He thinks I'm a villain._ Nicholas was crushed, for he knew it to be true. He searched for the nearest window and launched himself in its direction, glass smashing outward as he leapt through.

Not quite quick enough though, as a wooden arrow dug into his skin.

He began to fall.

* * *

_ Gardiner Expressway, Toronto - **1995** _

Schanke couldn't concentrate anymore on what his partner was saying. Mina Sterling was nearing a second solid hour of random ranting. He'd had to tune out, lest he go cuckoo. Being back on the day shift was wonderful though. No more living like a—well, he wasn't going to think about it.

It'd been a week since he'd met the two knuckleheads in Caledon. He'd listened to them drone on about vampires. Then, he had gone back to the shop and sacrificed their book to the shredder gods, having decided he'd make his own mind up. _Even if Nick is a creature from a late-night movie, he's still a cop who puts his neck on the line every night._

Schanke was convinced, however, that the change of partners was a good thing. _Time to leave the wackiness in the rear-view mirror_. _Nick'll be okay. He can take care of himself._

Unease curdled his stomach full of apple fritters and cappuccino. With determination, Schanke brushed off his sour gut and focused again on his partner. Mina was blathering about the evils of fad diets.

"Take the low-fat trend...everything's low fat this and that…granola bars, cookies, even cakes," she told him while navigating the busy downtown traffic in her petal-pink Corsica. "Low fat yes—but packed with sugar! Don't even get me started on the marshmallow ones!

Schanke did a facepalm. "Take away marshmallows and life's not liveable."

"How can you know if you haven't tried? Is it true they call you _donut_ Don?"

"Yes, and I couldn't be prouder," he muttered.

Sterling wagged a finger in his face. "Just say _no_ to trans-fat. Quickest way to clogged arteries." She tisked. "Susan Powter's my good food goddess. You should tune in to her sometime."

" _Susan Powter's a goddess_ —said no…guy…ever."

"It's clear we don't agree," Mina responded peevishly, adjusting the radio from his pick of _la Bohème's_ famous arias to a bubble-gum pop number by Roxette. " _Even_ on music. That's better, not so depressing! By the way, have you considered joining our little group yet?"

"For the last time, I don't want to join your itty-bitty band of fitness fanatics! I will _never_ run a 10K, try aqua-aerobics or, ug,… _jazzercise_." He made gagging noises and blew a raspberry, before adding, "Let me get to know you before we talk about anything to do with stretchy pants!"

* * *

_ Coroner's Building, Toronto – **1995** _

Natalie chewed her nails, as she leaned back at her desk and thought of Nick. He'd been gone several days now. It was so sudden; there'd been no word after they'd talked in her apartment. _Did he always vanish like this when he moved on?_

Her thoughts were interrupted by detective Wright roughly pushing open the doors of her examining room. Nat didn't particularly like this man. Whenever Garth dropped by, he'd leer at her wolfishly, smelling like buckets of body spray.

"Hey Doctor L., I stopped by for the Suzie Ronson report," said Wright with his usual predatory grin, his collared shirt unbuttoned at the top. Considerable brunette chest curls peeked out, his head a spiky porcupine of the same dull brown shade with white frosted tips.

"Yup, it's done." Nat thumbed through the files on her desk, then handed it over.

"Doc, I was wondering if you'd like to go out for—"

"Any news on Nick?" she interrupted before he could finish. Nick was officially listed as AWOL at work, she knew. And, Garth had tried to ask her out three times already.

"He's been gone for four days."

Natalie bit her lip. "Uh-huh. Cohen told me she opened an investigation this morning."

"Since it's a fellow homicide detective, Greenwood and I were given the case," said Wright with a hint of pride barely concealed under a mask of concern. "We did a wellness check this afternoon. Nick's pad looks the same as the last time when searched with a warrant. You remember that...Knight was held on suspicion of a junkie's murder last April?"

"How could I forget. It was a set-up."

"Yup, by a guy in this building no less, who just _happened_ to pick Nick as his scapegoat. The strange stuff never ends when it comes to that detective. Anyhoo, I led the team around the apartment _personally_. Nothing's been touched in a while, that or he's a lousy house cleaner. There's a layer of dust in the kitchen over the dishes…as if they've been barely used. Fridge's empty besides his vomit-worthy paint thickeners and there's a pile of mail in the mailbox. But nothing to indicate foul play. Personally, I think he's skipped off to Mexico to suntan and forget about Schanke. Or maybe, he's scoping out a new job somewhere else." Garth's eyes lit up at the thought.

"I hope not," answered Natalie. "Is that it?"

Wright opened his mouth again, but his cell cut him off with a jazzy rendition of _Girl from Ipanema_. He fished it out then flicked the clamshell model open. "Gorgeous Garth here," he guffawed after pressing it to his ear. "Uh-huh, got it." He held up the Ronson report and grinned at Natalie. "Just talking with Doc Lambert about Knight—told her my theories. What's up?" he asked. "Speak of the devil!" the detective declared after a moment. "No sign? That's strange. Least you found the mint mobile. Puts a different spin on things, doesn't it? Be there in twenty," said Wright before flipping his phone shut and replacing it in his jacket.

He looked at Natalie. "Guess I was wrong. I'm sorry Doc…but it ain't looking rosy for Knight. His car's been abandoned at the Human Touch Foundation. The radio's ripped out, two tires are flat."

"No sign of Nick?" she said, brows knitting. The location seemed like an odd place to leave the Caddy.

"Nope. Blues searched the property. There was nothing. I'm on my way over."

"Can I, maybe—tag along?" she asked.

Wright beamed, puffing like a peacock. "Sure, we can go in my car, then after we can perhaps—"

"I'll just follow in mine," she cut in with honeyed tones, before following him out.

* * *

_ The Human Touch Foundation, Toronto - **1995** _

Natalie parked beside Garth's ultra-blue Mustang in the foundation's parking lot, Lake Ontario lapping just a few metres away. Three officers were circling the charity, sniffing for clues, while others powwowed on a worn-out wharf. A few feet away, Nick's car was a wreck. Not only had the radio been stolen, but somebody had smashed the new driver-side window and tagged the side panel with fluorescent magenta paint.

Natalie rushed over, while Wright stalked off to talk to a uniform. Being near the Caddy seemed like being near Nick, and Natalie needed that closure. Pressing a silver handle, she opened the door then pulled a penlight out of her pocket and pointed it inside.

Jagged pieces of glass reflected back at her from the leather seats. Besides the radio, the CB was missing from the console, coloured wires jutting from the gaping holes left behind. Natalie continued to search, shedding a beam over the floormat on the passenger side. A manila triangle peeked out from under it. Careful not to slice her hands on glass shards, Nat leaned over and pulled the mat back until the entire object was revealed. It was an envelope. She picked it up.

Inside were two tickets to the Toronto Operetta's performance of _Tosca_ at the Jane Mallet Theatre _._ Nick had promised to take her there months ago. He hadn't mentioned these. Natalie unfolded them to look at the attached receipt. They'd been purchased a day after he'd come by her place.

So, he hadn't meant to leave so quickly.

"Where the hell are you, Nick _?"_ said Natalie, biting her lip.


	12. Chapter 12

_ Caledon, Ontario – **1995** _

"What've you gotten yourself into Nicholas?"

"Lacroix," Nick declared from his bound position in a tiny, windowless prison, his arms aching from hoisting his body up for days, pinned by short manacles above his head. Nick's feet just barely brushed the floor, both ankles shackled similarly. At least the stake in his chest had been pulled out...if not too gently. Left behind was a tattered mess of tissue that refused to heal without blood.

Nick tried to focus through swollen eye sockets from the two beatings he'd already endured. His mind was terribly shaken, for Lacroix's form, paler-than-pale and outfitted in an ebony suit with a Mandarin collar, was hazy.

"Your eyes do not deceive you. I'm here, but not in the flesh. And how I _am_ flattered to be the one your brain constructs for you—your spectral cellmate."

"Where are we?" Nick sputtered as blood trickled over his cracked lips from a slice across his forehead.

"I'm part of your imaginings, not your jailor. I don't know where this mortal has brought you. Nor can I release you…but I _can_ offer counsel."

Nick scoffed. "Thanks. But I've been beaten down enough."

"My son," Lacroix said softly, approaching. He touched the cut over Nick's brow with an undefined finger and a flash of fury. "Janette and I are working to find you. Your captor will pay. As for my sagacity, aren't the least bit appreciative? You hit yourself with your own stick more than anything. How many times have I taught you invaluable lessons?"

"Tell me how to get out of this, then. I'm near defeat." Nick slumped as much as his chains would allow, energy pouring out of him in drops that dripped steadily from his chin to the dirt floor.

"You'll die if you accept defeat," answered Lacroix.

Nick tipped his bruised face up. "An obvious comment if ever there was one. You're horrible company."

"Am I not the version of me you've envisioned? Astute and—"

"A pain in the neck. Right on the mark," growled Nick.

"A harsh description. As a caring father, I will continually try to dissuade you from dangerous pursuits, oh _fettered_ one. I'll wash the floor with this hunter's innards soon enough. Until then, you must hold on."

"I want to take care of him myself," argued Nick.

Lacroix cocked his head. "Really now? Are you planning to arrest him in your condition? For what, torturing a vampire? You're weak, near the breaking point. Conserve your strength for better things besides fantasies of justice. Draw on whatever reserves you can and—don't let hunger get the best of you. If you lose control in here," the ancient one gestured at the mud-coloured walls and iron-barred entry of the bleak cell, "you'll be dispatched without hesitation. Nicholas, keep your smarts about you at all costs. Look for opportunities to escape."

"Do not kill? No eye for an eye, vampire style? You don't sound like yourself."

"I'm the version your subconscious has made of me. I've never been ashamed of killing, nor will I shy from ripping this human apart—but you must think only of survival. This one has skill. Opportunities will be slim to get your teeth into him."

Nick sighed exhaustedly. "I hurt Lacroix, all over. And I—thirst. I'm afraid I-I can't hold on for a rescue." A sizzle of need raced through his parched veins. Instinctually, he licked at the blood on his face. His head, swollen and heavy as it was, felt like a bag of boulders.

"You must. Fight it, my son. I can help."

* * *

_ Sandybrook Blvd., Toronto - **1995** _

Schanke lifted the covers of his downy quilt and got into bed. Beside him Myra snored, noisy as a vacuum cleaner. A loud knock at the front door made the detective's eyes snap open. With a mild curse, he got up, while his wife didn't stir. _That's good, let her sleep,_ he thought, as he put on some fuzzy taupe slippers, wrapped himself in an army green housecoat then made his way out of the bedroom.

There was another knock, this time more forceful.

Schanke pressed up to a peephole in the front hall and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hastily unlocked the entrance and swung it open. "What're you doing here?" he asked.

Natalie's eyes were puffy from the tears she'd shed on the way over. "W-We need to talk," she sniffled.

"You okay?" said Schanke.

Nat shook her head.

He brought her in, leading Natalie to the kitchen and sitting her down at the table with a box of tissues. Grabbing a still-warm coffee pot from the counter, he held it up. When he saw her nod, Schanke poured a cup. "What's wrong?" he inquired, placing it beside her before fetching a small carton of cream from the fridge and a sugar bowl.

"It's Nick," said Natalie. She relayed her night's adventures, bringing out the tickets she'd found, then brought her mug to her lips with trembling hands.

"I had no idea. I've been training my rookie partner all week—sort of. If Sterling stopped talking, I'd start training. Jeez, I call myself a detective and I didn't have a clue about Nick—or Greenwood and Wright's investigation. Not that those two are talking to me right now," said Schanke, sitting down beside Nat.

"Don't be hard on yourself. Please, just help me find him."

"Has this got anything to do with," he paused, he couldn't say it. It sounded too zany.

"Nick should've told you his secret a long time ago," declared Natalie.

Schanke's brows shot up. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. "Are we on the same page? You know about…" The detective wiggled two fingers in front of his mouth like a nutty nightwalker.

"Yes. You guessed it," she told him, setting down her drink.

"So, he really is a—"

"Vampire. I've known since he wound up on my examining table. Tried to stop a robbery and got a bomb in the face. It's not what you think…he's no monster. Nick always tries to do the right thing."

Schanke frowned. "That's not what I heard. Although, my source was seriously hinky. And, it sure didn't sound anything like the guy I know. Learning that _vampires_ exist is one thing, finding out your partner is one of them is—whoa," he said, palms up.

"Who've you been talking to?"

"I met some journalists way out in Caledon. Lured me there with fake intel. Turned out all they wanted was to talk about Nick, about his past. One of them had evidence—some kinda book with photos. I got rid of it. They wanted to 'expose' him, Nat—and for me to arrest him, I guess. A real couple of wackos from the National Intruder. I didn't take them seriously. That rag is messed up."

Natalie sighed. "Nick's done things he's not proud of. He chose to be a cop to atone for all of it. He's different from the others. They don't seem to have the conscience he does. Now he's missing, and it's not because he's moved on. I think Nick's in _big_ trouble."

"I don't wanna talk about any other vampires. All I can process is him." Schanke bit his lip, chastising himself silently. _I knew it was a mistake letting those dummies go. Now Nick's in danger. Damn!_

Strange things that Galois had said rang clearer than ever in his mind.

" _It was_ … _a mortality potion. It took almost as long to find one ingredient, blood of a vampire with a human heart. You don't know it, but your Nicholas is a rare find._

"I think you're right Nat…Nick is different," said Schanke, after a pause. He put both hands over his face and groaned. "What've I done? I could've warned him!"

"It's okay, Schanke. Coming to grips with this stuff is a huge step, especially when it's tabloid reporters initiating you. It should've been Nick. He was afraid you wouldn't understand. He has to hide what he is. And he wanted to protect you—as a friend. It's dangerous to be in-the-know about this stuff," said Natalie. She looked down, catching felt antlers jutting from his slippers. "Um, are there reindeer on your feet?"

"What? No. Can't anyone recognize moose in Canada these days? They match the jammies." Schanke gave her a flash of the patriotic PJs under his robe.

"Reindeer, moose—four-legged, horned animals you're not likely to see walking the streets of Toronto. Tell me about those reporters."

* * *

_ Caledon, Ontario - **1995** _

"Help me, how?" asked Nick.

"We'll distract you, from yourself." Lacroix put a silver-ringed hand to his chest. "I sense something amiss…a cloudy memory inside you that's simply begging to be acknowledged, even in your present state. We can start there," he told his son.

"I'm chatting with a ghost, something's definitely amiss," jabbed Nick.

Lacroix disregarded the poke, brows lowered in concentration. "The _ambiguity_ revolves around an _interesting_ time and topic. Let us delve into a distracting—and exceedingly difficult subject."

"Difficult?" repeated Nick, less than enthused.

"The topic of love."

Nick's brows lowered skeptically. "Love? That's insane, given I'm chained to a wall and you're not the gushy type."

"There's method in my madness, I assure. Not long ago, we discussed some _anomalies_ of note during your centuries of existence. You'd begun to see… _repetitious_ players. Souls that mirrored others long gone. They moved the same, talked the same, had the same wonderful or annoying qualities they'd had in the past."

"I remember," said Nick.

"I've seen these _doubles_ as well. We mused then whether certain souls might gravitate to us in perpetuity. You'd just met Gwyneth again, or so you thought, the Welshwoman from your mortal years. She made your heart flutter a beat, didn't she?"

Nick nodded, shifting in his chains. "Johanna could've been her twin. What does that have to do with this hellhole?" He swore aloud as the manacles rubbed for the hundredth time against tender, worn skin. "This isn't distracting in the least!"

"Patience. I'm getting there. During our first decade together, I left my cherished one and did not turn her. We made our agreement—her human life for your assurance that if you ever loved a mortal, I could exact payment for my loss."

"Fleur, yes."

"I was going to make her one of us. Love had me ensnared. But I stopped…and heeded your grand speech that it might destroy her purity."

"I stand by my words," Nick said resolutely.

Icy grey irises flickered angry green gold for a second. "The reward would have been worth the risk…in retrospect," growled Lacroix.

"You've carried her in your heart, and it's been difficult," acknowledged Nick. "I know you regretted your decision. Thank you for allowing her to have a normal life."

"A life of boredom and monotony. Hers was a brilliant mind that should have been celebrated. Instead, she was a housewife to a boastful, irritation of a man."

"Fleur wouldn't have had André if she followed you. He was the joy of her short life."

"Yes. And what a fine lad he turned out to be…running you through with his sword. She would've been better off at my side enjoying life to the fullest."

"How'd you know that about André?"

"He's not far from your thoughts right now. And so, I know."

Nick nodded. "My regret over André hasn't changed. I failed him. He had every right to hate me."

"I'm well aware of your regrets. But consider this, that child couldn't let go of the fact he didn't get his supposed lot. His decision to wallow in a state of vengefulness was his choice alone. No one is guaranteed a fair shake in life."

"I suppose."

"Was that a faint acknowledgement of my wisdom? Do stop, or it may go to my head," quipped Lacroix. "Our relationship has been strained for a long while. It bothers me, for I value our little family in the outmost. Galois didn't need to remind me of the rarity of my son."

"The pitiful vampire tortured by guilt."

"And the ability to feel everything deeply in a matter I cannot. You and Fleur are much the same, bright stars in a moonless sky. It consumes me, my wish to see her again."

Nick nodded. "I've felt it in you, the longing."

Lacroix bowed his head, taking a measured breath, then straighten and divulged, "I want to be here when her soul reappears upon this earth. I've conviction she will find me—and it drives me forward."

"I know," admitted Nick. "At least…it was a guess about what makes you tick."

"I suppose you do. After all, I'm a ghostly reflection of your mind presently."

"It's a wonder I can argue with myself so well," Nick said flatly. His stomach rumbled, as hunger flared. Biting his lower lip enough to bleed, he sucked on the paltry offering. "I've officially dived off the deep end," he declared afterward.

"Not quite yet, if we can help it. Do you have anything to be strong for?" queried Lacroix.

"I thought it was Janette. But our marriage was fleeting," answered Nicholas.

The ancient vampire shook his head. "Love is never fleeting."

"Then there was Alyssa."

Lacroix rolled his eyes. "Think harder! Your relationship with your human wife was born of lies. She was awfully pretty but terribly weak. That's why you didn't speak of your true nature until the marriage bed, isn't it? Would she have truly accepted it? You saw how she looked upon your true form. It wasn't love. Look into your past. What does your forlorn religion say of love?"

"That it rejoices with the truth," supplied Nick.

"And?"

"Protects, hopes, perseveres."

"Corinthians," Lacroix remarked, " _interesting_ choice. Who loves you as the man you are? Protects, hopes, perseveres? Guides your journey back to the light."

Nick tried to think, but all he got for it was a sudden pounding at his temples. "Damn it. I-I can't think past these god-forsaken headaches! I thought we didn't get sick and this is the second one in a week!"

"We don't." Lacroix's eyes narrowed. He probed his son psyche carefully, before answering, "I know what this is, Nicholas—and the strangeness I've felt in you. It's some sort of…internal block. Your mind is crying for release."

"Who could've messed with my head?" said Nick, knowing the probable answer. Few people had the power to do that—and he was staring at a likely suspect. Nick thought harder. The pain shot up to a brain-bruising pommelling. "Did Galois do this—or did you?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"As a shell of myself, I don't have the answer. Move past it…and back to Brabant."

"Why there?"

"Humour me," Lacroix told him, his eyes shifting faraway. "I used to sit in the garden with Fleur among those saucer-sized flaming poppies of your mothers. She could calm me with just a melody from her flute."

"Her music had that effect."

"Then, imagine Fleur for a moment with that dainty whittled instrument. Her pieces could make one smile and weep in turns. Yours wasn't the only musical talent in the family."

"Yes," replied Nick. A sublime composition his sister had created to describe the flaxen shimmer of summer sun on a tiny pond near their Perwez estate came to mind. Whenever breezes blew, sunlight would glisten upon that little crystal puddle hidden in the middle of a forest of broad, shaggy Hemlocks. Fleur and he used to share their dreams of the future while wading in that secret spot as children. The song filled him, lessening the incessant thump like a cool, mystical compress. After lingering in its fantastical spell of soft, delicate notes until the last tinkling crescendo, he said, "You're right, that helped. I don't feel the pain anymore."

"I have an idea to circumvent the block."

"What do you suggest?"

"This handiwork must be fairly recent, given you've just had these episodes?"

"Within the last two weeks."

"Then, let's examine the time before the muddle…and nudge it a little."

"Be careful, my brain was ready to blow there for a minute."

"I will. This vagueness in you…I see around it…spray painted hearts, lacy cards, people talking as we have…of love."

"Valentine's Day." Nicholas declared, headache sparking anew. "The pain started last time when I thought about it. It hurts to think of it now," he winced.

"February 14th…when deep devotions are made. Did you whisper something meaningful to a special woman? Did you perhaps— _kiss her_?"

Halos shone around a dangling, naked bulb in time with the pulsating pressure in Nick's head. Groaning, he ignored both. "Did I? It must've been in her apartment." He clamped his eyes shut in an effort to focus. "I-I wanted…Natalie. I wondered later what had happened—why I couldn't remember it!"

"Someone has messed with your thoughts from this date on. Love, it seems, is a very touchy subject for you."

Nick strained to remember…and a handful of images broke free. It took an immense effort to catch one and scrutinize it.

"Did you swallow your eternal self-loathing and pull her into your arms?" said Lacroix.

The recollection took shape.

_The dread of being rejected couldn't compete with the pull of those lips on Valentine's day._

"Natalie. I—"

_All of his imaginings were nothing compared to the softness of those lips, the taste of her mouth. He'd burned for her for so long, and Nick could tell from the fervour with which she kissed him back she felt the same._

"I kissed her! Then, I made her forget—but I wanted her still!" exclaimed Nick.

"Why would you make her forget?"

Nick curled his lip. "I can hazard it had to do with our agreement. To protect her." Rough sentiments from the night at Azure that he'd hadn't previously recalled simmered up, enough to make him sure.

"A solid deduction. But it doesn't explain the block."

"Someone took my feelings for Natalie!" shouted Nick, furious. _Damn it_ , he couldn't figure it out from the next distorted item that flickered into view. "There's more, I sense it." He pushed himself harder to recall. He _had_ to know what it was.

Another memory surfaced, sharper and very distressing.

_Natalie looked terrified, but she didn't run._

_He'd **attacked** her._

_But…she didn't run._

When? What century? He barely had a neuron left to think past this blasted headache.

The vile vignette wavered…

_Natalie's round eyes stared at him. Two thick lines of crimson trickled from the dreadful double wounds on her lovely neck before she pressed her hand down to stop the bleeding._

"I hurt her!" He shook his head, unable to accept what he was witnessing.

"Let it come. What happened?" prompted Lacroix.

Nick stilled and forced himself to concentrate.

Another memory ripped into him like a blazing bullet.

_Ravenous, bloodthirsty need coupled with a drive to possess Natalie—completely as a vampire—had made him a ruthless animal. He couldn't stop it. The inner beast had mangled his love into a singular desire for death._

**_Natalie_ ** _. He consisted solely of hungry impulses for her. Her intense feelings overwhelmed him in a jumble of incoherency. He begged his master, "I have to have her! I **need** her. I've waited, wanted." _

_The monster had trounced upon the man who had chained it._

_There would be no denial anymore._

**_Natalie_ ** _. Nick snapped his jaws at her and delighted in the fear that spiced the air_

_But Lacroix…had put an end to it._

"I tried to kill her! Y-you stopped me."

The flood gates opened, more spilled forth, well-defined…and ghastly.

_"Listen. Fight this! You are in control of your needs and wants. If you take her this way, she'll be torn to pieces!" declared his master. **You don't need this woman! You do not want her blood!**_

"Now you've got it!" stated Lacroix. "I can see it too. Oh Nicholas, I remember my part through your eyes."

"You made me forget how I felt about her! I lost the most important thing in my life!" hollered Nick, flailing as if still caught in his master's grip that night.

"It was a stop-gap solution...to keep you from killing another innocent. You would have blamed me for the rest of eternity!" explained the elder. "You're not back there. Calm yourself," he soothed.

Nick ceased his fighting, coming back to the present and taking in the bland walls of the prison once more. His memories had shown him the truth. "I remember. _Everything_ ," he said soberly, shattered by the awfulness of his actions.

The Human Touch warehouse came into sight through a final, unbearable scene.

_"I need her, want her…I **love** her," came the reply, as Nick tried desperately to shake off his master's grip._

_Lacroix shoved himself into Nick's mind and yelled aloud, "You do NOT love this woman. You do NOT desire her more than any other!"_

_Nick howled, putting his hands to his head at the sledgehammer force of the mental command. "No," he gasped._

**_You do NOT love her. You've NEVER loved her_** _, Lacroix repeated telepathically._

 **_No!_ ** _Nick said again, trying to thrust the intruder from his mind._

_Lacroix ignored his protests and pushed even harder, hard enough to make Nick wince in torment. **Listen to me! You are mine and you will submit!** the ancient sire ordered._

_Nick's flailing and growling ceased abruptly, as he finally obeyed, his frenzied emotions cooling._

"This incident, it's been rising to the surface. Your heart feels what it feels. No amount of persuasion will contain it. My phantom presence here, our discussion—all of it was your mind's attempt to make itself whole."

"Natalie saw—the worst of me. That's why she's been acting so differently."

"But she hasn't run like any other mortal. Perhaps…true love _does_ persevere."

"So does the vampire in me," Nick declared gloomily.

"The knowledge of your love for this woman will be a test of your strength. Do you have what it takes to resist in the future?" asked Lacroix, adding, "Nicholas…do _not_ tell the real me of your revelations here. Knowing that you've revived your feelings for that woman might stoke my desire to pay her a visit."

* * *

_ On Highway 410 outside of Toronto headed Northwest - **1995** _

"Nat, I say we go with Plan A: fry anything and everything to get to Nick."

"I told you, I don't care for that one," said Natalie as she drove her car towards Caledon. "I can't believe those nut jobs tried to get you to betray him. They deserve an extra-crispy reception, but I'm not zapping anything I don't absolutely have to."

"Plan B includes the option to fry, good call. I guess they figured I'd turn on Nick. I was close. And I'm still shaken about it. I should've talked to him," Schanke said guiltily from the passenger seat. He had his work-issued Glock and a new toy, a Taser from the precinct, in his lap for dealing with bad guys—and tabloid reporters.

"Fear is a normal reaction. Sometimes, it scares me to think I'm in love with a vampire," replied Natalie. She glanced over at the man's raised eyebrows and gave him a poke, "Tell me you didn't already know that."

Schanke nodded while he toyed with a lever, maximizing his new device. He was itching to cook Martin Lindsay's slimy ass. "Yeah, I knew. But I've never heard either of you say it out loud. He loves you too, by the way. I can tell."

"I hope so. The idea that psychos might have him is more than I want to imagine."

"What're we gonna do if he's injured? Do we give Nick some type of, um, refreshment?" Schanke tucked his wrists to his chest. While he was a regular blood donor, that type of giving was way out of his comfort zone.

"I brought supplies," Natalie motioned to her medical bag on the back seat. She'd loaded it up with blood packets and a first aid kit. If Nick was famished, she wasn't about to go in unprepared.

"What's he like when he's peckish? Does he get _,_ uh _, hangry_? Cause I'm not ready for him drooling over my neck."

"The Nick you know is the real deal. Whatever you see tonight, remember Nick needs us. He's no monster, Schank. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise."

Natalie barreled towards Caledon, her stomach churning at the idea of going up against vampire hunters. It sounded as if they knew quite a bit about Nick's kind. She hoped desperately that he was okay.

* * *

_ Caledon, Ontario - **1995** _

Nick was barely alive after nearly a week without feeding, skin translucent and slick, tightening in angles around his facial bones. His blue eyes had sunken in while his cheekbones stuck out. In one last attempt to be free, he thrashed against the arm restraints then breathed hard and loud, having sapped his energy completely. _Titanium_ , he thought, for the manacles didn't give.

At the sound of footsteps, Nick gnashed his long teeth.

Without nourishment and emotionally drained, he was at an endpoint. Despite attempts to hold on, there was little left with which to act human. The hunger was a live wire that buzzed in his veins making him shudder. His beast thrashed rabidly inside for vengeance and blood. Nick imagined what he'd like to do to this hunter…his lips curling and his eyes glowing brightly.

"Keep yourself in check," scolded Lacroix.

Nick roared like a bear at him. "After what I've been through, I'm losing my mind! And I can't help but be angry with you—at least in part! If your just my imagination, let me be!"

"As you wish. But don't do anything rash. Your state has…deteriorated," Lacroix told him, his form dissipating.

Nick hissed until the spectre disappeared fully.

Beeps blared, as fingers fiddled with the lock pad next to the prison. After six high-pitched tones, the barred entrance swung open automatically. Moving cautiously inside, Leilah gulped upon meeting the blistering gaze of a demon.

Nick remembered this one and snarled low. "Come to laugh at the broken beast?"

The vampire was a greenish-yellow eyed, tiger-toothed skeleton. Leilah stood well back. The words that came from its rusty red smeared mouth were so rough, she hardly understood them. It winced as it shifted, tracking her movements with that unearthly stare, finally resting on her neck. She knew the horrific thing wanted nothing less than to tear her apart.

The purple bruises that covered its body and face, as well as the grotesque, gaping hole in its chest that peeked through torn clothing were almost too much to look at. What had Martin done besides bring this creature down with his crossbow?

The wound that truly made her want to barf, however, was the scarlet, blistered and oozing burn on its cheek. Leilah recognized the pattern that holy water had made. She'd inflicted that, and it hadn't mended itself.

Martin had said it would.

She mustered her courage and uttered, "Leilah Beck, National Intruder. I'm here to get your side of the story."

"I remember you. How could I forget?" Nick muttered dryly.

"Your wounds? Why haven't they healed?" asked the woman, pulling out a tape recorder from her plushy, peach vest to capture the response.

"You're a reporter. Can't you figure it out?" snapped Nick.

Leilah checked that her cassette tape was spinning, disregarding the dig in her determination to get the most important interview ever. "Martin told me about your kind. I know that crosses weaken vampires. And you can't stand sunlight. But aren't you supposed to heal really fast?"

An impulse to draw this annoying mortal in and tap a vein pulled with vigour. Nick tried to call upon his powers, but he was too drained. Scowling, he shoved the predatory drive aside with the dregs of his willpower, focusing instead on his rage. "Your _Martin_ friend lied. We don't heal without blood and he's spilled most of mine. You're his puppet. Let him fill your head with how wicked I am!" Nick flicked his hand for her to leave. The chains gave a jingling rattle.

"He says you're a killer."

Tipping his head to the ceiling, Nick moaned out of misery and frustration. "It's not that simple. But to answer you, yes—I've killed, and for that, I'm deeply… _ashamed_. For my sins, I will repay society, even if I rot in Hell in the end! As a tabloid reporter, I'm sure you're not interested."

 _Stop antagonizing her, Nicholas! Talk, and gain this woman's trust_ , Lacroix chastised in his mind.

Nick shook his head to dispel the troublesome voice.

Leilah didn't seem to notice. "How many have you killed?" she prodded.

Nick ground his teeth together and sucked in a laboured breath—his faith in mortals at an all-time low. Wanting nothing more than to shoo away this horsefly of a person in a nasty way, he forced himself to calm instead. Sky blue eyes stared bitterly at the human. He'd share a snippet of his past, no more. "I _used_ to kill…a long time ago. But in 1227, I was a Christian knight sent to recapture Jerusalem with the army of emperor Frederick the second. After battling down the Mediterranean coast, we were struck by a deadly illness. We'd reached the outer city but had to turn back. Hundreds didn't make it."

"The sixth crusade. I remember it from high school history," said Leilah

Nick nodded. "Only a handful of my order reached Paris. I was very _disillusioned_ afterward—in a God who'd allow such suffering for little effect, and in a church that showed no care. Pope Gregory accused the emperor of stalling," Nick said sourly. "He pushed for the crusade to continue immediately."

"It was Paris the year after, if I'm right—that's where you were turned," said Leilah. "Martin's family has kept tabs on you."

"Good for them," spat Nick. "It's shocking, we've never met before."

"You're a difficult man to catch."

"Can you blame me for not buying a ticket to this funhouse?"

Leilah pursed her lips, tapping her index finger on the tips before saying, "I guess not. Going back to Paris. What was it like becoming a nightwalker?"

Nick glowered at her. He'd have rather been hauled to dine at the Danforth festival, Schanke's favourite, than partake in this dreadful conversation. Choking on whatever garlic bomb was plopped on his plate would be easier than baring his soul to this leech. He took another great gulp of air…and pressed on, "A beautiful woman promised a life of eternal pleasure. I was weak. I'd lost loved ones, brothers in arms, for no reason I could understand. I refused to be God's warrior _ever_ again and soaked myself in alcohol in place of it. That's when she found me. Her words were seductive, irresistible. It turns out there _was_ pleasure—then everlasting regret."

"Regret? Martin told me humans are beneath you—and killing is nothing. Your kind lives for it. What kind of regret?"

"He's an idiot. To be mortal again is my greatest wish—and the shame of taking human lives torments me. Some say I'm an abomination for it. Guilt haunts what was supposed to be a blissful existence. Never grow old, be strong and powerful. The payment was too high a price to pay."

"How many people have you killed?" repeated Leilah.

"Have you heard a word? Why's a number so important?" spat Nick. "I remember each and every _face_. I drink cow's blood now."

"Those bottles I found in your trash."

Nick scowled, remembering Janette's words. _Never trust a human._ Schanke and how many others had betrayed him. "You've been snooping. Trying to build a sensational story? Mortals are deceitful. Go write that I'm a monster! See how far you get!"

 _Stop this, Nicholas!_ boomed Lacroix. The command was like a thunderclap inside Nick's skull.

"You're a murderer walking the streets! The public has a right to know. Convince me otherwise," retorted Leilah.

"There's no otherwise," answered Nick. "I don't deny it. I did kill—but not anymore. Do I deserve to be here—I do."

Leilah's eyebrow cocked. "You're saying you deserve this?"

"It's justice," said Nick.

Lacroix rematerialized, fuming. "Foolishness! Justice is for mortals! Do not give her an opportunity to leave you here!" he shouted. Leilah didn't react to the reprimand, and Nick knew then that this ghost was unquestionably a product of his battered brain.

He brushed off his master as well. "My past's caught up with me. I _do_ deserve this, every bit. I've inflicted pain upon so many. But, I'm no use as a corpse. I can't atone if I die here. It's as a vampire ironically, that I can do a lot of good. I've been able to use my skills to help solve nearly unsolvable cases."

"Like the 'Killer Stalker of Toronto'."

"To name one. Leilah please."

Lacroix smiled. "Better, Nicholas," he praised.

"Atone? As a cop?" said the journalist.

"As a cop," replied Nick.

"That's what you're doing in homicide? Making up for your past?"

Nick nodded, his irises lighting from within, scorching into her. "What better job is there? You've seen me now, disgusting as I am. Why aren't you screaming? Could it be—you understand?"

"I'm not normal—or so my coworkers say. I'll die before I let the truth suffer for money like those old rats at the Intruder!"

"A tabloid reporter with integrity, you're a rare breed. _Help me,_ Leilah." For her benefit, he tested his manacles once more against the raw skin on his wrists. They didn't budge, but a fresh jolt of agony went through him. Nick hissed.

 _Why **aren't** I screaming? _thought Leilah. _I should've scrammed by now. Why haven't I?_ Officer Knight didn't sound or look remotely human, but he didn't frighten her like he had initially. She actually felt a swell of sympathy for his plight. Gathering her courage once more, Leilah said, "I wouldn't write your story unless Martin let me see you. He didn't want me here, and now I see why."

Nick's head sagged. Here was his opportunity for freedom, yet he barely had any strength left after spilling his guts. "Please," he managed, his throat like sandpaper.

Leilah shuffled forward at a turtle's pace. "No one deserves this," she said firmly, deciding to do something. Removing a nail file from her deconstructed, seafoam miniskirt, she plunged it straight into her palm. Ruby liquid welled like a spring. "I'll talk to Martin. Whatever you've done, this brutality is wrong."

She sided up to the vampire, brushing his sad, battered face with her good hand. "Take it," Leilah told him, thrusting the messy one to his mouth.

The smell cocooned Nick—coppery, overpowering…and unavoidable.

His weakness dissolved as his beast butted to the fore, overtaking him with its rapacious need, while his eyes shone hellfire red.

Displaying needle-sharp canines at the bleeding gift, Nick gave a threatening purr and reared back automatically to sink his teeth deep and extract…more than a mouthful.

Leilah yipped in surprise and sprang back like a jackrabbit…into the arms of Martin Lindsay.

"Oh Leilah," Lindsay chided, holding her shivering shape. "This is what it is. Don't have sympathy for a brute." He surveyed his prisoner's gaunt, growling face with satisfaction. "You won't last a day before withering into true undeath…unable to move. I've enjoyed making your last days so wretched, de Brabant. You made my grandfather's life so difficult. He joined the hunters in earnest after you left, wracked with pain and crippled. Granddad Carey used the research skills you taught him to kill dozens of your kind. The Carmichaels have tracked vampires for generations now."

"Martin Lindsay Carmichael? That's your full name?" said Leilah, still clinging to him for dear life.

Lindsay nodded and added, "I hold the record for the greatest number of kills." He loaded the gun at his side with a bulky beige dart, aimed…and fired.

The projectile whirred, hitting Nick square in the shoulder.

He convulsed as the unknown contents injected into his system. Throwing up the last of his stomach, Nick observed the woman before him blur and reform into one he knew well.

His heart was crushed upon seeing her distrusting stare.

"Natalie. I'm s-sorry—I couldn't help myself," he sobbed.

He hadn't been remotely strong enough…lapsing at the first sight of her blood.

Love truly wasn't meant for a ghoul such as him.

* * *

_ London, England - **1912** _

Nicholas hit the perfectly manicured lawn of the Carmichael grounds with a heavy thud, the impact pushing the air from his lungs. Blood poured from his upper back where the huntress's arrow protruded. He'd never be able to fly like this. Clamping his mouth shut from hollering, he yanked awkwardly at it, but the object refused to budge. So, he pushed himself forward and stumbled for a distant, brush-covered hillside.

He hadn't gotten far before hooves clip-clopped behind. Nicholas whipped his head back to see two humans closing in.

"Stop, Professor! Die with dignity, at the very least!" shouted Carey from his horse.

Nicholas froze, knowing the chances were slim to outrun the mortals. His back throbbed viciously. _Hawthorne_ , he guessed, a genus of tree that reacted with his vampire physiology in an odd and terrible way. The ache, like the repeated stabbing of cleavers, made him want to scream.

Selina trotted close, catching up to Carey and positioning her weapon for a final shot. However, the young man held up his hand in a halting gesture. She nodded, nocking an arrow in her bow but holding its release.

Carey dismounted, keeping a wide berth around his prize, his spiked cross dangling from a leather belt. "I've discovered your age, old-timer. Selina's clan has investigated you. Your infamy is well known. Seven hundred years, that's astounding!" he stated, detaching and swinging the religious symbol front and centre. "It's a fascinating life story to read—although troubling. I found the tale lacking in certain areas. Exactly how many have you killed?"

Nicholas was quiet, his energy flowing down his back in a crimson stream. A wave of dizziness hit hard, and he pressed against the only support, a tall iron lamppost.

"Cornering the _mighty_ de Brabant, was easier than I thought," boasted Carey, his thumb hooked on one suspender as he postured pridefully. "You're not so scary when faced with your own death, hmm? Before we finish this, I need to know. How many kills, Professor?"

Nicholas stared at the ground, refusing to make eye contact, equally afraid of the cross and humiliated.

"Answer or no. I will wait no longer," huffed Selina.

"Darling, you'll have the honour of ending him, I promise," Carey cooed. "As a scholar of history, I _must_ know."

"I don't kill," grunted Nicholas.

"A vampire must," argued Selina, still straddled on her gelding. "You aren't designed for mercy. Don't try to persuade us otherwise."

Nicholas glanced her way. "I drink animal blood," he said.

"It lies! It can't resist human blood…as shown by its past," she told Carey. "This is trickery, love. De Brabant is plainly a murderer. The evidence speaks for itself. Vampires deceive. This one is no better, slipping in and out of personas, lying to survive—leaving bodies in its wake!"

Nicholas turned back, squinting before Carey's holy symbol. "I killed no one at Oxford," he told the boy.

"You left a man clinging to life," reminded Carey, holding the cross steady. "What were you doing playing a teacher—warning us not to repeat evils bygone. You had _no right_ to wax on about sinfulness. You must've thought me especially daft to have chugged your swill, being such an amoral creature."

"I've never thought of you other than a gifted student and trustworthy friend," Nicholas stated through clenched teeth, lowering his head once more for a reprieve.

"Trust is for the forthright. Vampires deserve nothing of the sort. You played the part of a good man, but there's nothing good in you!"

"Please, Carey," pleaded Nicholas.

"I've no sympathy for those who sell their souls for foul pursuits. You're searching for a cure that will erase your curse. I didn't bother honestly to help much with the endeavour. Tell me, professor, if you find this cure—will you _merely_ forget your depravities and move on?"

"I'll never forget—and I’ll repay _every_ transgression."

A peal of laughter erupted from Selina. "How will you wash those stains from your hands, pray-tell?"

Nick shrugged. "I don't know—yet, but there must be a way," he said.

It was Carey's turn to chuckle. " _Ridiculous_ is not a word I would've used to describe you, until now."

"It's time to finish this," Selina said to her partner who nodded in agreement. Her tiny fingers tensed on the bow.

"If you kill me, we'll never know," Nicholas told them quickly.

"You seek to wriggle your way out, worm. You aren't worthy of redemption!" hollered Selina.

She let the arrow fly.

An obscure shape flew in front of Nicholas intercepting the whizzing item aimed true for his heart. Lacroix growled as he snapped it in half, his scorching amber eyes fixing furiously on the huntress. Before she could reload, he pounced, sweeping her from her horse.

Lacroix took Selina down briskly, ripping away the weapon and tearing into her neck with his teeth, as she let out a terrified scream. Nicholas's attention, which had been fixed on his master's actions, was torn away by an agonized howl. Carey sprinted towards him with a bellow of indignation and anguish.

Injured as he was, Nicholas still had strength beyond a human; the pupil had much yet to learn about his teacher. In a swift, blurred action, he swatted the cross to the ground heedless of the scorching sensation upon contact, then gripped Carey by the throat in another fluid movement.

Nicholas focused on him with bright eyes. His nature clawed to finish this with blood, but he dismissed it. "I trusted you," he said, punctuating the words with a sorrowful rumble, while his hand flexed tighter.

"You should've known never to trust them!" screeched Lacroix from his position over Selina, his mouth red with the last of her. "Had you killed him before this never would have happened."

"No," argued Nicholas, shaking his head. "Murder will never happen again at my hands."

"How do you purport to finish this then?" the ancient one snarled.

Nicholas took in his teary-eyed, cowering student and frowned. "I will not be that which mortals hunt for fear," he told his master then turned back to Carey.

The young man struggled unsuccessfully to free himself, as Nicholas replaced his hand on Carey's throat with a rock-solid one on his shoulder. "Look at me," Nicholas ordered, locking onto a racing, human heartbeat. "Forget us…and this pursuit."

Carey ceased squirming, alarm floating away with the gentle but insistent and reverberating voice. "Forget," he repeated.

The dawn broke free of the clouds just then and cast down its first ray.

It grazed Nicholas's flesh with a teasing warmth that quickly became a tongue of fire. He swore and instinctively brought his hands up to his face for protection, casting Carey aside.

Lacroix cringed, his flesh also smouldering in the morning light. Without thought, he picked up his son and swiftly half-ran, half-flew into the thick treeline at the farthermost point of the Carmichael estate.

* * *

Lindsay regarded Nick coldly. "Granddad was a resistor and a hell of an actor from what I've been told. He landed on his cross, and it pierced his spine. He never walked again after that. Pray to whatever spawned you de Brabant, because in memory of him I won't let you live. I'll end this once and for all…with a stake and throw your body in the sun." He bowed in fake cordiality and added, "Until we meet this morning."

Lindsay stomped out of the cell with Leilah at his heels, pressing the keypad on a nearby wall.

Nick was sealed in with a clink to await his execution.


	13. Chapter 13

_ Caledon, Ontario - **1995** _

Natalie brushed her ripped pant leg, not as great at scaling fences as she'd been as a child—but better at least than her associate, who stalled at the top, cringing at the height to jump down. "Shouldn't the dogs be around by now?" she asked, watching him finally take an awkward leap and join her.

Schanke nodded, knowing that the kennels weren't far. There wasn't so much as a bark. "I thought they'd hear us coming," he said with a shrug and thought of the meat Natalie had stuffed in his backpack. She'd injected it with enough drugs to down a dragon.

"If I were a vampire hunter with Nick in my house, I'd have my doggy sentinels loose right now," replied Natalie. "If Martin Lindsay knows his stuff, he knows they come in groups."

"More vampires?" groaned Schanke. "The Nightcrawler, right? Nick's father could be around here?" His heart skipped, while he swept the area diligently with his flashlight. At the CERK radio station, they'd chatted one time. Lacroix had been polite, but he had a wild and intimidating aura like a wolf on a leash. That underlying savageness had come out at the Human Touch. Schanke didn't care to see anything like it again.

"Yes, he could. And others," said Natalie, giving no details, before clicking on her lantern and pressing forward.

The news that bloody bogeymen might be lurking around increased Schanke's anxiety ten-fold. Both he and Natalie were outfitted in heavy, chafing Kevlar vests. Feeling the weight of the gun in his chest holster and the Taser in his pocket made him minutely less distressed. Nat had brought her own bag with intimidating medical stuff she knew how to use. He was also comforted by Myra's gold cross, tucked under his shirt.

It took half an hour of sweat and hard work to cross the huge property and scale the big incline to Lindsay's mansion. The hunter may have been a neatnik about his house, but the landscaping at the hill's crest was as overgrown as an Amazonian jungle. Natalie and Schanke bushwhacked through truck-sized rhododendrons, bloated blackberry bushes and a last infantry line of Junipers that were plumply pear-shaped and hellishly prickly, crouching low at their edge. Bringing out night-vision goggles from his pack, Schanke took a look around.

Everything seemed calm with no sign of movement.

He scanned the back side of the beige stucco building. Three windows shone on the top floor, but the first level was dark. Stripes of steel over all glass surfaces did not allow easy access, the only entrance point seemingly a single indigo backdoor. A light flicked on abruptly, illuminating the clear barred rectangle along its upper length. The door opened a crack, a soft white glow spilling out into the gloom.

"I'll call you tomorrow," said a voice that Schanke recognized as Martin Lindsay's. "This is the biggest story of them all. You just interviewed a vampire! Nothing like Anne Rice penned it, huh?"

"No, definitely _not_ like Anne Rice," his partner in slime, Leilah Beck replied.

"You were down there a while. I wish you'd talk about it," prodded Lindsay.

"I'm not ready," answered the woman. "Just like I can't type anything up yet."

"Come on, Leilah. Don't pass up the opportunity to write about it. Imagine the offers when you break this story? Next stop, the Sun…or better yet CBC television. They'd give an anchor spot to a _stunner_ like you," gushed Lindsay.

The door swung open wide, the two exiting, unaware of voyeurs. "Uh-huh," said Leilah dryly, unconvinced, as she maneuvered a three-step staircase in silver platform wedges. "I need a day to think," she replied.

Lindsay watched her fumble in those giant shoes to her car. "I'll never get her fashion sense," he muttered, as she jumped in and waved, the engine rumbling to life.

Lindsay gave a salute, then marched back inside.

With him out of sight, Natalie and Schanke crept forth gently, so as not to make noticeable crunching sounds over the gravel parking area, stopping directly in front of the headlights of Leilah's econobox.

Leilah jumped at the sight, her nerves shot from the night's adventures. "Detective Schanke?" she exclaimed, taking in his odd flapping with her head cocked. She cut the engine, got out and said, "What're you doing here?"

Schanke signalled to follow and sighed in relief when she actually did. With Ms. Beck in tow, he scooted for cover, Natalie bringing up the rear. Once hidden under a copse of sickly, yellow-brown ornamental maples, he began, "We," he gestured to Nat, "came for Nick."

"But I thought you were done with him? You're not partners anymore."

"That has nothing to do with this," Schanke lied.

"B-But he's a…vampire. Doesn't that give you the heebie-jeebies?" sputtered Leilah. She'd trembled for an hour after almost being a chew toy.

"He is, but that's not what we see. Nick's a good cop. Heck, he's a good guy. Ask Natalie," he glanced at the doctor, who gave a nod, "She cares deeply for him."

Leilah choked, her eyes huge. "You're Natalie? You _care_ for that, that _thing?_ How? I didn't believe all Martin's talk about monsters, not completely…but tonight I got a real glimpse of it." She shivered again.

" _His_ name _is_ Nick!" answered Natalie, trying unsuccessfully not to get upset. "Tell me what happened!" she demanded, nostrils flaring.

Leilah gaped at her, before blurting, "It," a stinging glare from Nat had her correcting herself, " _Nick_ —tried to attack me!"

"What'd you do to him?!" said Nat, tears flooding her soft grey eyes. _Nick wouldn't harm anyone unless he was seriously injured…and not in control_.

Schanke's gaze narrowed on Ms. Beck. He knew Nick, or at least he was fairly sure he did. Looking at the house, he wondered, _What the heck's going on in there?_ "What happened?"

Grateful to be in one piece, Leilah had forgotten why she'd gone down to the basement in the first place. She chewed her glossy coral lips, remembering. "Martin wouldn't let me near the cellar. I told him I wouldn't type a word unless I saw everything. Knight was chained up and hurt. I wanted to help…and he tried to take a piece out of me for it!"

"Nick was tortured and likely starved! You can't expect a good reception from a beaten-down vampire!" declared Natalie. "He was running on self-preservation."

"But…those eyes and the teeth!" the journalist argued, before swivelling promptly on her high heels towards her car.

Natalie grabbed a wrist full of silver bangles and yanked her back. She struggled, but Nat didn't let go. "Tell me, if Nick's such a monster why're hesitating to write your story?"

Leilah turned back to her, scowling. After a pause, she muttered, "He told me some…things."

* * *

"So much for hi-tech," said Schanke, before he shot out the back camera with a whisper, the bullets passing through a make-shift silencer. An advantage as a homicide detective was full knowledge of firearm upgrades, homemade or otherwise.

Natalie punched in the entrance code she'd been given on a hidden display disguised as a stout, cherry-cheeked garden gnome. Ms. Beck had also disclosed directions to Nick, but that was about where the help had ended. After spilling her whole story, Leilah had rocketed to her vehicle and peeled down the driveway.

The mudroom at the backdoor was typical, minus all mud. Daffodil-hued rubber boots were neatly stacked on a plastic mat, and a long apple-green raincoat hung from a row of stainless hooks. The space was deserted and dim, like the twin hallways that branched from it in a V shape. Nat and Schanke tiptoed forward, taking the left corridor. Cautious scans of rooms they passed found them exceedingly orderly and unoccupied.

The duo had learned, to their alarm, that Nick's slaying was set for sunup. They trod lightly by the dark floor to ceiling windows of an exercise room, knowing that in less than an hour, dawn would break through the foliage outside to light up steppers, elliptical machines and everything else.

Picking up the pace, they plowed farther into Lindsay's gigantic home than Schanke had ever been. Taking a curved walkway beside a potted ficus, the twosome counted additional, important landmarks: a restaurant-style kitchen, an extensive library of leather-bound books, as well as a home theatre with two rows of cushy recliners and a TV to rival the one at the Loft, before turning right to follow a smaller path.

"Everything's spotless…and very expensive," Natalie said quietly.

"Uh-huh. Like something from _Obsessive-Compulsive Weekly_. This guy's got moola. I saw a painting from the Group of Seven back there. It looked original."

Natalie grasped an abstractly twisted, iridescent sculpture from a cutesy scalloped table and tipped it upside down. "There's a price tag." She shook her head in amazement. "More than three months' salary. It's as amazing as the rest. Should I hit him over the head with this?"

"For an evil scumbag, he's got a good eye for throwing things together," admitted Schanke mutedly, pressing on.

"Damn him," muttered Natalie, setting the piece down and hurrying to catch up, her decorating skills non-existent. Grace had ribbed Nat for painting her living room _electric tangerine_ , which seemed trendy at the time but ended up being less than restful.

Schanke halted in front of a burgundy chamber of wide windows and chic wainscoting, full sets of armour and various medieval weaponry catching his eye. Although the broad swords, battleaxes and a wickedly spiked double mace were awfully tempting, he grabbed a short-handled dagger from its wall hooks and shoved it into his pack. "Don't trust myself with something longer, but this might be handy."

"Nick would know what to do with all of it," Natalie told him.

"Really?" said Schanke, surprised. "Just how old _is_ he?"

"Old enough that Knight isn't just a name."

Schanke snorted in wonder. "I've _got_ to talk to that guy," he said.

They made a wrong turn at the indoor pool and wound up missing an essential marker. After correcting course, the pair located a bust of the same repellent woman Schanke had seen painted in Lindsay's study. "Leilah was right, you know, about this gal," he said, reading a shiny name plaque, "Great Granny Maude _does_ need more fibre."

A slight turn and ten paces beyond the hideous head was a marble staircase with a cozy alcove tucked underneath, an open hatch inside mutedly illuminating the surrounding walls. They peered down the hole at a wooden ladder that stretched into the cellar below. Natalie stepped forward to explore when a wisp of air brushed her neck. She spun around.

"You didn't think you could save him by yourselves, did you?" said an accented voice with a tinkling laugh, the stranger blending into a shadowed corner a few metres away. Stepping into the buttery glow of a shell-shaped wall sconce, the fair woman was dressed in a form-fitting emerald catsuit and matching cape.

Schanke gasped. "Y-You too?" he sputtered in surprise, protecting his neck with his hands. He was hoping at least one of Nick's eccentric friends might be human.

Janette had hesitated to make her presence known. Unlike Nicholas, she shied away from mortal connections. She'd observed these two trek from the fence line and had frightened away several large canines from their vicinity. But the detective's startled expression was simply too much, and she smirked despite herself. "I'm afraid so," Janette answered, pulling her hood back to reveal her midnight locks.

"Is there anyone else we should know about?" asked Natalie.

Janette shook her head. She and Lacroix had felt shock, distress and pain from Nicholas a week ago that left them extremely agitated. Even more worrying, his link to them had faded fast afterward. There was no trace of their kin in the city, so they'd split up to search.

Fearing Galois's brood had sought revenge, Janette had headed for Montreal, while Lacroix travelled towards the United States. She found nothing in Québec, and after arriving back in Toronto, began to tail Natalie in hopes of finding her lost knight.

Sensing morning was nigh, Janette declared, "Stay here for now. I'll go." She closed her deep blue eyes. "I can barely sense him in this house. Nicholas is very weak. It will get worse with the coming dawn." A slight weariness was creeping into her body, but nothing like a wounded vampire in need of regeneration might feel. Opening her eyes, she swooped down the stairs, leaving the humans in the dust.

Schanke and Natalie looked at each other. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" the detective said.

"That you didn't come to look pretty? And there's no way you're sitting on the sidelines while Nick gets staked?"

Schanke nodded. "That's the gist. Let's go."

They sighed in unison and descended gingerly into a claustrophobic, damp room. Lattice shelving stretched along dull brown, cinderblock walls, holding wine bottles of kaleidoscopic colours. A farthermost, arched opening promised more to the house's underbelly. Schanke strode swiftly to it, popping his head through and spying a brief tunnel that led towards another doorless archway beyond.

Janette was nowhere in sight.

He cursed, drawing his Glock and perusing the passageway once more. Sparse bulbs hanging from raw ceiling wires made it even dimmer than the low-lit wine cellar. His cop instincts were unhappy with no escape route besides doubling back. He looked at Natalie, who seemed equally wary. But she put on a brave face and said determinedly, "Let's get Nick."

"You sure? I mean, it's part of my job, going into dangerous places. But you—"

"I'm fine," she told him, tilting her chin high. "Better than fine. Let's go save Nick. Taser, please. I've decided I love plan B."

"Okay. You sure you're up for a little shake n' bake?"

"I may not be a gun person, but I can sure as hell sear that bastard—for Nick."

"Alright, but remember, as a cop I go in first. You're backup," Schanke whispered, handing it over, before hugging a wall with his firearm drawn. He crept forward with Natalie following behind.

The tunnel funnelled into a sizeable room. They peeked carefully inside at the same dirt-coloured walls as the rest of the basement. There was a person-sized cage with a small metal table and a chained occupant so frail he looked like a corpse. Nick's blond head was down with no indication of a ghost in the machine. He remained worryingly still, as Martin Lindsay traipsed past the yawning cell doors, chuckling at another form on the ground.

"Wasn't the lamb's blood a stroke of brilliance? Didn't see it coming, huh?" Lindsay snickered at the shape on the floor retching up a thick brownish-red substance. "Repulses vampires, like all holy symbols. You thought you'd just storm in and save him, eh darling? Crossing a threshold of lamb's blood makes your skin crawl. Can't believe you didn't notice my paint job over the bars. But that superior attitude your kind has in spades tripped you up. Enough for a _mere mortal_ to get the advantage." He grinned, patting his trusty dart gun. "Enjoying my little Belladonna-Curare mix? Created it specifically to slow down pests."

Janette clutched her throat, taking a slow breath as her stomach rolled in nauseating waves. There was nothing left to throw up, poisoned blood smears marring her delicate face, but she heaved violently again anyway. "You are repulsive," she said finally, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. "Mistreating Nicholas who helps you mortals, who defends you!"

"The human race doesn't need his sort of _help_ ," quipped Lindsay. "He plays the hero, and gets a perverse high from it, I'm sure…but hasn't got a shred of virtue. When you make a deal with the devil, you become his underlings. I know about de Brabant, just as I know about his bloodline, Janette du Charme. Death follows him, and you."

"If that's what you know, then you should've done better research. Nicholas doesn't _play_ at being good. He's driven to help others, to save them."

"Tell that to the hundreds of people he's slaughtered. Who speaks for them?"

"Killing Nicholas isn't going to change the past. Better then to change the future," Janette told the hunter. "As he's done every day since choosing his new path."

"A vampire can't change his spots—or fangs, whatever. Instinct always overruns it. Restorative justice is a human invention that I don't subscribe to. However, let's say I believed in healing deadly evils for argument's sake. It's a concept for humans who can recognize their sins—not heartless, killing machines. What rainbow of redemption is de Brabant seeking at the end of this?"

"He has faith that his actions will redeem him."

"He'll find out soon enough," said Lindsay, hoisting his weapon and slipping in another needle-pointed cylinder. "But here's a spoiler. You can't wash away mass murder, especially on his scale. Those heavenly gates will be locked tight, forever. De Brabant's future's a hot one. And yours." He shot Janette with another dart.

She screamed as her torment amplified, scraping crimson nails against her forearms, while a new round of caustic sludge assailed her bloodstream, the room swaying along with her simmering insides.

Lindsay checked his watch, then set his sights on his other victim. "Detective Knight? Don't sleep now," he said in saccharine-sweet tones, backhanding him.

Nick awoke and showed his teeth, his beast crying for blood, tearing at his belly with the hunter _so_ close. He shook fiercely, as he tried to keep his ravening side from taking over or dawn from pushing his exhausted body into drowsy confusion, before seething at his jailor with copper, wrath-filled eyes.

Lindsay beamed proudly at his misery, placing the gun on a teeny torture table of sinister, stainless knives, toothy saws, naughty needle-nose pliers and more. "You're still hanging on. Fabulous! It'll be fun to pull those chompers before I end you and watch you cry blood like my last customer," he said, picking up a shiny hooked instrument.

His maniacal attention was taken away by the slight shuffle of feet from behind.

"What's this?" uttered Martin, looking at the tiny woman nearby.

Legs splayed like a desperado with the Taser drawn, Natalie stood her ground outside the cage. Against Schanke's protests, she had charged in, unable to take any more.

"Another misguided friend? De Brabant, seems your harem has come for you—should I tremble? Are there more band members in this girl group?"

"Try building a harem after this," said Natalie, sending two pointy prongs through the open cell, crackling for his crotch.

Lindsay dodged the whirring objects and their curly wire tails. They whizzed past and dropped to the dusty floor. Stepping over the still sizzling ends, he closed in on Natalie and, with a textbook roundhouse kick, sent the Taser flying. It collided with a wall, cracking into multiple shiny silver pieces. He shoved her down hard and withdrew a Magnum from a holster belt, pointing it Nat's way.

A low, lingering rumble made him pause and glance over his shoulder. Nick's eyes were volcanic red, glowing more threateningly than the hunter had ever seen.

"Is she a favourite?" asked Lindsay. He eyed Natalie, who'd squashed a black bag behind her when she'd fallen on her back. Nat pushed herself off and into a sitting position, the charcoal sweater of her cat burglar ensemble coated in a dirty film. "What would rankle you even more? Should I rough her up a little?" he said to Nick.

"Go to hell!" shouted Natalie.

"Such a temper! Have you fallen for him?" Lindsay said with a greasy grin, reading the hatred on her face. "You won't get far. Think he cares for you? It's a sham, never trust _them_. Knight's driven by his _appetite_. Love is for show…a delusion."

"I'm under no delusion. It's clear you're an asshat," Natalie clapped back.

The man's lip curled, as he kept his gun fixed on her, glancing quickly to Janette, then back. "How'd you get in?"

It was Natalie's turn to smile. "Never trust a journalist," she told him.

"Dammit, Leilah!" barked Lindsay. "If she didn't have a spectacular ass to make up for that annoying personality, she'd be in trouble. Seems de Brabant charmed her too. I'll never understand the appeal." He jabbed a thumb at Nick, who looked ready to eviscerate him. "Look at this thing, it's his true form…a disgusting parasite."

"Shut up!" snapped Natalie.

"Struck a chord? He could tear you to pieces in an eyeblink. And right now, he definitely would. What'd he say to make you believe he was a pussycat? That you were his special snowflake?"

"Shut up!" Natalie yelled louder.

Lindsay tisked. "It was sweet nothings, let me tell you. You're a means to an end, like hundreds of bedwarmers before you. A sexual distraction. A walking blood bank. Whatever gets him to the next warm body. You'll grow ugly, he won't. He knows it, but you refuse to acknowledge that enormous elephant in the room." Lindsay examined her head to toe. "Can't see any marks. Not that it means much. Is that a medic bag?" he asked, noticing the bulky, crushed item. "Are you a doctor?"

Natalie didn't answer. _What's taking you so long, Schanke?!_ she thought, wondering how this jerk could be distracted. There were surgical scissors with vicious tips inside her kit that Nat wanted to get her hands on.

"Why would he need a doctor?" Lindsay thought aloud, before holding up his finger in an 'aha' gesture. "You're his broker, supplying him with snacks. I _knew_ he had to be drinking human blood! But, I _am_ surprised he's not tapping you _twice_ , sweet face. Then again, it'd be a death sentence for you. Vampires don't understand restraint."

"You know squat."

"I'd ask you to enlighten me, but I've got things to finish and…I don't like you," replied the man.

Natalie's anger swelled, and she shouted, "Hypocrite—touting yourself as the saviour of humankind. You'll kill anyone in your way—vampire or human!"

"I'm taking one for the team, in my own way. Can't have you blabbing about my operation. Toronto's in need of a major cull. I've discovered the Raven by watching de Brabant roll around in that spaceship of a car of his. That club needs a good barbecue." Lindsay closed an eye, lining up the sight bars of his pistol for a perfect shot. "Goodbye, doctor," he declared.

A figure slid into the doorframe. "Freeze!" shouted Schanke, raising his Glock.

"You too?" huffed Lindsay, looking up at him. "I thought you were a good cop. You're in homicide. How can you defend a murderer and his accomplices?" He scanned the ever-increasing crowd, displeased. "This is turning into a bash. You didn't manage to grab a bottle of wine?" he asked acerbically, adding seriously, "Drop your weapon…or I'll shoot!"

"You touch her," Schanke inched forward, "and you're dead."

"Don't Come Closer!" roared Lindsay, yanking Natalie to him, then pressing his gun to her head.

"I'm a crack shot, dimwit...I can shoot a freckle off your cheek at this distance," answered Schanke, his firearm trained. "You're a dead man if you twitch a muscle."

"You're a cop, who won't trade her life for a chance at me, it's not in you."

"You'd better hope so," Schanke told him.

Lindsay laughed. "Bluffing isn't your strong suit. Your eyebrow twitches. I noticed that last time we met. But silly me, I believed you were a just man. Thought you might add a little spark to our vampire story by spilling the trials of your partnership. That was back when things were easier, and I wasn't going to kill this blood dealer. That's the price if you don't back off. She has no value to me…and neither do you. Last warning, put…it…down!"

Schanke scowled and let his firearm fall.

"Good, you like this woman. Kick it over there," the hunter pointed to a gap in the floor.

Schanke did as he was told, giving it a boot with the tip of his shoe. It fell into a crack between the wall and the ground.

As Lindsay watched the gun disappear, Natalie took the opportunity to yank his Magnum sideways. He yelled, "You bitch!" and wrestled for control, but Nat held on mightily. The gun jerked back and forth, yarded by two sets of hands before discharging, the bullet going wild, ricocheting off concrete and grazing Lindsay's shin.

He screeched as a maroon stain bloomed below his left knee, travelling down fancy chinos and over pricey-looking loafers. Lindsay sneered, snatching Natalie's neck in a pincer hold, before ramming her roughly against the jail bars and squeezing.

"No!" Nick bellowed, straining desperately to reach her. It was no use. His shackles didn't give an inch.

Natalie dug her blunt surgeon's nails into the death grip, but Lindsay was a burly, thug of a man and it had no effect. He squeezed harder until Natalie's air supply dwindled. She lost the energy to fight, as black spots ping-ponged across her vision. Nat squirmed with her remaining strength in one last futile attempt to break free.

Lindsay ground his weapon hard into her forehead. "You stubborn cow! Die already, won't you!" he yapped.

With a Viking-esk cry, Schanke belly-flopped onto his back. The man let Natalie go, and she dropped to her knees gasping for air. Then, he bucked like a bronco, snorting and scuffing at the ground.

Schanke refused to back down, and they whirled around in a crazy ballet, the hunter flailing while Schanke attempted a tight headlock. After several wide turns around the dusty, makeshift dance floor, Lindsay managed to wriggle his gun up and aim awkwardly. Schanke noticed the barrel zeroing in, and he grabbed for it…

and missed.

But the dagger in his other hand did not, as he thrust it into the other man's chin and up.

Lindsay shrieked, while blood spurted over his denim, designer shirt. He fumbled hastily for the blade, but his hands slipped on the slick, red-covered handle. Gurgling and twitching, he fell.

Eyes bulging, he tried desperately to latch onto Natalie's leg, but she gave him a massive kick with a navy runner. Wet burbles filled the room, pulling at her sympathy, while his eyes pleaded for the same mercy he'd been incapable of offering. But even if she could trust him and get close, Nat knew he was beyond any hope of assistance.

Lindsay struggled horribly for agonizingly long minutes, while Natalie and Schanke watched until he wheezed his final breath and was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

_ Caledon, Ontario - **1995** _

Nick was stunned to see his ex-partner kill the hunter with what appeared to be a 14th-century Spanish battle knife. When Schanke glanced his way, he turned his head hastily, booming with a half growl, "Don't look at me!" too spent to pull back his beast.

"It's okay," said Schanke, wiping sticky fingers on his dark trousers. He helped Natalie up, then approached the cell carefully. "We're here to save you."

"Stay away!" yelled Nick.

"D-Don't worry, I don't spook easily," he replied, putting on a valiant front. "Been a cop for fifteen years now. I've seen a lot of scary stuff. Heck, we've been through so much of it together. Remember when that crazy tried to roast us with a flame-thrower? Nearly ended up like supermarket rotisserie. I thought he had us for sure, but we got the jump on him and—"

"Listen to him, Schank," Natalie warned sharply.

"It-It's fine," he told her but looked ready to soil his underwear, before nudging slowly into the jail. "I've gotta get used to this. You're my friend, Nick. No matter what, and we're getting you out of here." Examining the chains that bound his pal, he cringed at the state of the guy up close.

Nick's need exploded at the nearness of Schanke's nervous, chittering heart and at the heady, metallic scent drifting from the body close by. He tensed, clenching his jaw tightly.

"Step away from Nicholas— _now!_ " Janette ordered, sitting up woozily. "He's injured and very hungry—a challenge for the strongest of our kind!" She could feel her chevalier balancing on a knife's edge between sanity and madness.

Schanke's mouth made an O, and he reversed speedily. "I'll let you handle this then," he muttered, taking large backwards strides towards Natalie, grabbing her hand and leading the doctor outside.

Nick sighed in relief, before reaching out through his link to his kin. _Keep them away!_ he pleaded, adding aloud, "J'ai tellement soif (I'm so thirsty)."

Janette's face was green-tinged, but her innards had blessedly settled. "Nicholas," she said, rising unsteadily and closing the distance between them, then tenderly stroking the dishevelled, tawny beard that covered his chin. "Je sais, chéri. Tu m'as besoin, mais je peux rien faire (I know, darling. You need me, but I can't do anything). I have to heal. I've been poisoned." She showed him the prominent black-brown veins crisscrossing her arms.

Natalie poked her curly head through the archway, her chin set determinedly as if she was cooking up a plan. Nick's heart plunged upon meeting her grey stare, for he couldn't hide his atrociousness. He'd attacked her monstrously at the Human Touch and tried again to bite her here—and the reporter—or one of them; he wasn't sure of anything anymore. So far from a civilized being, Nick tore himself away and focused on the slope of Janette's neck, beseeching.

She shook her head. " _Désolé, mon cher_ (Sorry, my dear). My blood will be tainted for some time. But, I can bring _him_ to you." Janette pointed to Lindsay's lifeless corpse.

"No!" Nick grunted. Clinging to the last wisps of his willpower, he wouldn't feed like that.

Especially in front of _her_.

"I can help," offered Natalie, holding up a bulky bag of blood. "Two of them burst when I fell. But I've got one left." She tossed it to Janette, who uncorked the plastic tip and offered it to Nicholas.

"You need this most. Take it all," she said.

* * *

It took the better part of the day to locate the keys to Nick's restraints. Janette had stayed behind in the basement, while Schanke and Natalie found a locked armoire in the master bedroom. The detective smashed the dresser with a hatchet from the garage, revealing its helpful contents. He'd previously pulverized ten cupboards, three desks, two filing cabinets as well as the bust of great-grandma before this—expressing the desire to smash a lot more, but Nat told him no.

When the pair returned to the cellar, they found Nick hanging from his restraints in a fitful sleep. Janette was awake beside him and motioned for them to throw over the keys. With the keyring in her grasp, she unlocked Nick's ankles, then wrists, and he fell limply into her arms.

"Nicholas, it's time to wake," Janette said softly, as she laid him down. After no response, she gave him a gentle shake. Nick stirred, his blue eyes cracking open, but so did his hunger, stabbing her through their bond, raw and relentless. When nightfall came, she'd take him to the Raven, doubting her knight could be safely around mortals until he fed properly.

Janette helped Nick to his feet, his legs trembling and threatening to collapse. "This isn't going to be easy, _chéri_ ," she said, adding silently, _better then to make it quick_. Grabbing ahold of him, she flew from the cell.

Nick hissed loudly, as he was placed in the corridor beyond. _Have I been thrown into the sunlight?_ _Am I roasting in Hell?_ _Is this what becomes of me?!_ He writhed frantically in disorientation well after the burning sensation on his skin had stopped. Several minutes passed before the hysteria diminished, but his bewilderment remained. Nick saw Janette at his side, rubbing her arms.

There was something familiar and terribly inviting nearby as well.

It was the captivating scent he desired recently above all else; the blood of the one he'd tasted before…

and needed more than anything to indulge in again.

Nick scanned the area wildly, full predatory senses alert and locking unwaveringly on a human female beside another mortal, a man, not more than five metres away. Her unique perfume promised ambrosia, hooking him completely.

_Cinnamon and cloves._

Nick needed much more than had been offered…and the ultimate reward was standing there ready to be taken. Fixating on the thought of ecstasy, nothing mattered but to fill himself with this woman's life until her heart could pump no more.

He let out a snarl and coiled to spring.

"Don't!" a voice hollered.

Nick whirled around, expecting to see the fuzzy spirit of Lacroix, his frost coloured eyes, sour and judging. Instead, there stood a lost soul, wearing worn, black leather boots over armoured chausses, his chest covered by a plain white tunic emblazoned with a ruby red cross. Intricately meshed, silver armour wrapped his head and arms—a different ghost, from 800 years past.

In his hand, Sir Nicholas clutched a familiar broad sword with metal-plated gloves, a gift from Guillaume de Brabant, the family crest carved on its hilt. The Crusader's cheeks were rosy and his brow sweaty, as if he'd just come from sparring with his fellows.

"This is not what we want. Keep down the narrow path," he said…

and faded into nothing.

A memory hit Nick hard.

_Natalie's wide eyes stared at him. Two thick lines of crimson trickled from the dreadful double wounds on her lovely neck before she pressed her hand down to stop the bleeding._

Natalie. She was the one he'd set his deadly sights on.

"N-No, I can't! Don't let me hurt Nat!" he whimpered, pushing himself into Janette's arms.

"Shush. It's alright," Janette soothed, pulling him closer, then lightly kissing his scruffy cheek. "You need to leave!" she told Schanke and Natalie. "He's not stable. The poisoning has drained me as well. Holding him back could be difficult."

"Please, go! I don't want to hurt either of you!" managed Nick, his voice muffled, as he buried himself further in Janette's embrace.

"Nat, let's go," said Schanke, before offering Nick a sympathetic smile. "You've been through hell, buddy. We've got this one." Taking off his backpack, he rummaged and pulled out a plastic bag, tossing it to Janette. "It's something Natalie made to put the dogs to sleep. She told me you drink animal blood out of the bottles in your fridge, Nick. I know it's a little beaten up and gross looking but...tough times call for tough measures. Feel better soon," he said.

Natalie gave Nick a kind smile as well. "It'll be okay," she assured. In truth, she was unhappy to leave him with his wily ex-wife, but there was no choice. Reluctantly, Nat followed Schanke down the tunnel.

Janette opened the bag containing a bloody T-bone that smelled tartly of chemicals and stale cow. Nick's copper eyes zeroed in on it immediately. At the sound of footsteps ascending the cellar ladder, the vampiress sighed and, with great distaste, pulled the thing out. "You've got some very understanding mortals there," she acknowledged, handing the drippy item over. "Suck on the meat juices and rest, my love."

"Yes," Nick nodded, glancing in the direction of his human friends, before bringing the oozing offering to his lips.

* * *

_ Main Street East, Toronto - **1995** _

Leilah Beck shimmied down the street in a paisley print jacket, lime yoga pants and thigh-high zebra-print boots. In front, her grandmother's porky Papillon yanked on its lead. A gust of wind hit them, causing the layers of her new Rachel from _Friends_ hairdo to whip across her face, while Petey, yipped once.

A woman emerged into the bright moonlight from an alleyway ahead. Wearing a merlot, full length and flowing dress and cape, the stranger scrutinized Leilah, her stare a rich blue. "Focus on me," she whispered, her accent smooth and compelling.

Leilah couldn't help but gawk at the beautiful lady with the otherworldly eyes and pale ivory skin. "Focusing on you," she repeated, stiffening like an army cadet.

Janette licked the tips of her growing fangs upon noticing the exposed throat of her thrall…then frowned. This birdbrain had tricked Nicholas and nearly gotten him killed. Janette wanted to drain the idiot dry but had promised her _chéri_ to do no harm.

Sighing, she began the task of erasing the mortal's memory, happy at least that the reporter was so weak-willed as to be manipulated without threats even after all of the evidence she'd seen. Janette would make sure to be thorough with this one, as promised, but add her own flair. "You'll no longer pursue journalism. At the Intruder or elsewhere."

Leilah's bottom lip jutted out. "But my outfits…they go perfectly with the job," she whined.

“Hmm. It seems you have a little pluck.” Janette shook her head and gave a stronger mental push. "You will leave the news behind. No more, ever again. You want a career, _better suited_ to your talents and intelligence…scraping gum off the decks of the subway."

Leilah nodded, giggling. "I _do_ want that," she echoed, grinning dopily, then skipped away. "Someone desperately needs to jazz up those TTC overalls. I'm thinking--peplum," she mumbled happily to herself.

"Mortals," Janette said, shaking her head. With that done, she was off to snatch Galois's syringe at the request of her cautious master, before Nicholas got his hands on it.

* * *

_ 96th Precinct - Toronto, Ontario - **1995** _

Nick entered the police station warily after three days at the Raven. He appreciated Janette for so many reasons. She'd courageously gone up against a hunter and helped with his rescue, then offered him a safe place to recuperate. Natalie and Schanke were also on his list of wonderful people. They'd risked their mortal lives at every turn and given him back his life here. His gratitude was immense.

The precinct tonight was astir as usual with blues and bad guys. Some of the officers turned from their duties to grin and welcome him back as he entered the grunt room. "The Capt. told us what happened. Hope you're feeling better," called Julia Nellis, taking a break from covertly canoodling with Brody Gibson behind the water cooler.

Nick thanked her. Schanke had phoned last night with an update on the work front. Apparently, a tall man with platinum hair had shown up to explain that his nephew, officer Knight, was recovering at his house from a severe illness…

The Captain was floored when Nick's uncle turned out to be Toronto's edgy DJ, the Nightcrawler. She'd never heard anything about it before, but Lucien Lacroix was not surprised. His nephew would never brag of a celebrity relation. He told her how the dear boy had asked him to check-in, but in his worry, he'd forgotten. It had been so very touch and go.

Cohen understood perfectly. After all, she had a family too. Before leaving, Lucien noted that his nephew's car had also been stolen, as if the lad's illness wasn't enough. The conversation ended with a lengthy discussion on the poor state of humanity these days…

If anyone asked about Knight afterwards, the Captain would march over in her sandalwood power suit with shoulder pads wide enough to rival an Argonaut football player and repeat the whole conversation monotonously verbatim, as if she was on permanent rewind.

Schanke waved when Nick approached, as he leaned on his friend's desk. Nick remembered the many interesting (and sometimes heated) conversations they'd had back and forth. "How's Mina?" he asked, as he sat down.

"Don't know. Haven't seen her for a couple days," replied Schanke, flopping onto his old chair and playing with the gears. Annoyingly, someone had adjusted it in his absence.

"A few days? Is she sick?" said Nick, noting his empty inbox. He'd been prepared for a Pisa-like leaning tower of to-dos, but tonight there was nothing.

Schanke shook his head. "No. Just really busy these days showing her new partner how she likes things done." He put a hand to one side of his mouth, whispering, "Apparently, Garth's not a very good listener."

Nick looked up at Schanke's innocent expression with surprise. "Garth's her new partner?"

"Yup, Cohen separated Greenwood and Wright. Seems they were doing some gambling on the clock…disparaging fellow officers too, and there was a spot open with Mina. I'd already asked to be put back on the nightshift."

"Gambling? I never heard about that. And, you're back on nights. Really?" replied Nick.

Schanke nodded. "The graveyard shift's where you get the really _exciting_ cases. And, I missed Natalie. They've got a new day coroner. Nat took the late shift." He winked. "The new ME, she's seventyish, blue hair. What was that name?" he said thoughtfully. "I think it's Pat. As for me, my partner choices were you or Greenwood. And, I'm not much of a gambler since Myra put the kibosh on any more dates at the Track, I thought I'd pick you. That is if you want a partner again," Schanke rose, cautiously extending a hand.

Nick grinned widely. "I could use one, thanks," he answered, and they shook on it.

Schanke settled back down, wriggling in his spot, then called out to the room, "Whose the smart Alec that's been messing with this?!" Looking at Nick with a sour face, he griped, "I shuffled two desks down for a week, and some long-legged giraffe moves in!" then tugged on the levers once more. After several grunts, finally having achieved optimum height and comfort, he nodded satisfactorily to himself.

"Better?" said Nick.

"Much," Schanke said, putting his legs up on his desk. "Mina kept talking about her bad hair days. Haven't had one of those since '87." He rubbed his balding head for effect. "She used to work in a health food store. Even if you don't eat with me, at least you don't quote the diet points of what _I_ do like it's a twisted video game. Sterling gave me 'The Best of Susan Powter' on video as a goodbye present! Wanted me to eat beansprouts and chug soymilk. Soymilk, blah! Myra would _love_ that! The wife's been trying to get me on a diet for a decade," he babbled nonchalantly as if nothing had passed between them but a few sick days.

Nick laughed. "Happy wife, happy life…or so I've heard," he said.

"I did learn a few little things from Mina," Schanke confessed. "Did you know that spinach and tomatoes have anti-oxidants? Cancer preventing. I'll have to put some on my next triple-cheese pizza. So do berries and beans. I probably could do some raspberries on a sundae," Schanke said, mindfully.

"It's a start," replied Nick.

"Mina had about a zillion things to rag on about. I've got one of her little pearls for you."

"Do I really need to know?"

"If you want to keep that big GQ blowout, you might." Schanke pointed to Nick's perfectly coiffed pride and joy.

"Not the hair. It's sacred. Don't mess with it," Nick warned, putting his hands up protectively over his scalp.

"Don't be a baby. I'm not gonna touch it," chided Schanke. "Mina told me condition, condition, condition…before heat drying. You'll avoid a huge head of split ends in the future."

"I'll get on it. Did you ever _teach_ that rook anything with all her talking?" declared Nick.

"Can't teach someone who knows _everything_ ," Schanke complained. "Riding with her was H, E, double hockey sticks, Nick! She's got this Pepto coloured, Barbie car. And I think her sticky sweet, pop music caused permanent hearing damage— _definitely_ the loss of brain cells. I'd rather turn my weapon on myself than be forced to listen to MMMBop one more time. What happened to good ole' rock and roll. BTO, the Jeff Healey Band, you know…Rush."

Nick listened to his partner rattle off his favourite live band experiences.

"Streaked across the stage at the Horseshoe Tavern once. It was a bet. Can you believe they banned me for _three_ years after that?" Schanke said, shaking his head. "It was a teensy-weensy little prank. Next time, I'll keep on the skivvies, I guess."

"Next time?" said Nick, incredulous. " _Definitely_ keep on the skivvies." He let out a great sigh that almost sounded content.

* * *

_ La Vie Délice, Toronto - **1995** _

Nick and Natalie had gone to see the Toronto operetta's performance of _The Marriage of Figaro,_ having missed _Tosca_ by a few weeks. In truth, Nick wasn't disappointed, for he preferred Mozart's spunky comedy over the melodramatic Puccini penned work. It was a wonderful initiation into opera for Nat as well. She'd snorted all the way through.

They continued their night out with a visit to an elegant French bistro.

"Order for two, I'm treating. You can have whatever comes on my plate. It'll make me look less rude not eating if you nibble some of mine," declared Nick, seated across from his ravishing date. She wore a shimmering, snowy white gown with a matching shrug. Her hair was pinned in a reddish bun with a few escaping waves. But it was her lips that he couldn't stop staring at; a deep rich boysenberry shade made their beautiful peaks even more inviting. He was holding himself back from exploring them, but just barely.

"You're in luck tonight! I'll be having roast pheasant a l'orange and you'll take the poached salmon in saffron cream," said Natalie, setting down her menu and taking a sip of wine.

"My favourite," quipped Nick.

"Great, then you'll be taking a couple bites?" she replied.

Nick made a face. "I'm allergic to fish," he informed.

"Since when?" said Natalie.

"Since always. Couldn't eat it as a kid, gave me a rash."

"Have you tried it since? I think human allergies are beyond you now."

"No, I haven't. But we shouldn't take chances with stuff like that," Nick said innocently.

Nat looked at him sideways. "Really now. I'm just trying to help you be more human. You can be a difficult patient, you know. I might have to refer your case to another physician," she poked. "How about I take the salmon and you get the pheasant? A bite of that won't kill you."

"No, but—"

"Remember when I charged into a vampire hunter's house to save you? Ripped my favourite pair of casual pants. You can at least try a bit for me," she said.

"That seems like dirty pool, playing the pants card," muttered Nick.

"I'm not above guilting you. Whatever gets food in your mouth and, eventually—your buns in the sun," she told him. "Speaking of buns, those pants were hard to find. I got them stateside with Grace."

"I'm happy to order a new pair in every colour. I don't think choking on a pheasant wing is going to cure me, but I'll have some…for you."

"It's a step in the right direction and doctor's orders." She smiled at him.

He grinned back. "Glad to have my doc looking after me so well. I promise to be a little more cooperative, lest you reject my case."

Natalie took another swig from her glass. "Good, cause you wouldn't like the new coroner's bedside manner. All business and daytime appointments only. I bet her protein shakes are even chunkier and greener."

"Is it possible?"

"You don't wanna find out," Natalie warned. "Can you have some wine too with me? This cabernet is incredible. Good pick. What region in France did you say it came from?" She poured herself another round.

"East. Burgundy province, near Switzerland. And, if I add this," he pulled out a little silver flask and grabbed for his glass, "I can." He mixed in the liquor and the contents of his contraband in equal measure.

"Oh, it's like we're at the senior prom and your spiking the punch," snickered Natalie.

"I'm afraid I didn't have a senior prom," said Nick.

"No slow dancing with a puffy-sleeved date. I'm so sorry for you."

"Fleur and I had private tutors. But I _did_ do a lot of dancing, especially at _maman's_ marriage meetings. And I've gone through several puffy-sleeved eras," explained Nick.

"Glad you didn't miss that trend. But marriage meetings? Your mom tried to set you up?"

"When _papa_ died, she wanted to make sure I carried on the family name. She thought it best I put down roots and invited noble families to Perwez. It was always a big celebration, a display of money. Beef was expensive to raise and showed you had the big bucks. And barley bread, honey, vegetables…along with lots of wine at the banquet table, of course. Then lute players and dancing."

"Sounds like a rocking house party."

Nick chuckled. "Not quite. They were pretty stuffy. _Lots_ of small talk with strangers. And no matter how my mother tried, I wasn't ready to get hitched. I wanted to prove myself like my father, on the battlefield. _Maman_ was horrified, even though she boasted about her son 'the crusader knight in training' to seem like a faithful Christian. Secretly, she couldn't bear to see me fight in the Holy Lands like _papa_. He died in Tel Aviv, Jaffa specifically."

"You got your way. You went on a crusade."

"In a round-about fashion. _Maman_ had pull with some very important people. She convinced one to take me on a mission to Wales as an attaché, to keep me out of trouble. But it was fate that I go south towards Jerusalem then back to Paris…to Janette and Lacroix."

"And so it began, your life as a vampire."

"Yes. And now here I am with you. Turns out there _are_ perks to this long life."

"Cheers to being alive," Natalie held up her glass and Nick did the same, bringing them together with a satisfying clink. They downed a mouthful at the same time.

"Yes. And spending more time in this city with you." He tapped his glass against hers once more and took another sip. A lanky musician with a cheery smile and an accordion walked out onto the stage beside their table, beginning a romantic rendition of _La Vie En Rose._ "Care to dance?" Nick asked his date.

"Heck yeah," said Natalie, bounding from the table. Nick rose and linked his arm in the crook of her elbow, leading Nat to the dancefloor. As they began to move, he took in the scent of cinnamon and cloves coming off her skin. His darker side awoke, approving. He pushed it down harshly.

 _The knowledge of your love for this woman will be a test of your strength,_ reminded a voice. Nick ignored it and concentrated on the heavenly sway of Natalie's body in time with his.

Nat stroked his clean-shaven face with the back of her hand and said, "Man, are those cheeks glowing. You look great."

"Thanks. Rest and relaxation agree with me," answered Nick. _And fresh blood,_ he added with a twinge of guilt _._ Janette had insisted he drink from her when she'd recovered. He knew she enjoyed the intensified psychic bond between them. He hadn't had the strength to argue. Vampire blood eased the pain and sped up his healing time considerably

"Sure does. But you're going back to work so soon. Why not take a bit more time? You went through Lindsay's travelling torture show, after all. I can't believe all the places he's shown up with his crossbow and pliers." They'd found handwritten accounts of the hunter's many exploits as well as trophies and pictures that they'd burned.

"Enough to give a vampire the shivers," agreed Nick. "As for work, you know me, no rest for the wicked. Knowing that psycho is gone makes me happy. And locking up more makes me happier."

"Uh-huh. Well, take it easy this week," Natalie told him.

"Will do." Nick guided her to the left to avoid an elderly couple laughing and spinning. Bringing her chin up, so their eyes could meet, he said quietly, "We need to talk."

"Hmm," she said.

"Natalie. I remember—everything."

"Everything," Nat repeated calmly, but her quickening heartbeat told a different tale. "About what?"

"About the way I feel about you. Whatever Lacroix tried to block—it's gone. What I did…at the Human Touch. I remember it all." Nick brushed her lips with his thumb, longing to bend down and lavish them in a show of how apologetic he was. "I'm so sorry," he muttered instead.

Natalie's eye's widened. "How'd you find out?"

"Turns out torture can bring a lot of things to the surface. You had to carry the burden of what Lacroix had done to me. It was unfair, cruel even. Unfortunately, that's his M.O."

She shrugged. "It's in the past. Knowing how you truly felt…was comforting," she fibbed.

"I could've killed you," Nick told her point-blank.

"You didn't. You won't," she assured.

"You're strong and resilient like nobody's business. Those are just some of the reasons why you're so special to me."

She cuddled to his chest. "It's nice to hear."

"I need you, Natalie," said Nick. _But, so does my beast_ , he finished silently, feeling it lurking. He breathed in slowly to calm himself.

"I need you too," Nat answered, even as her insecurities took the opportunity to flare. "What about Janette? You've got an insane history together. She's crazy for you and so _annoyingly_ flawless."

"I happen to think _you_ are flawless. Janette's a part of me," admitted Nick. "We'll always be tied if I remain this way. But she's not…you."

Natalie grinned, looking up at him.

Nick hugged her fiercely. "I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe."

"I know. I'm not afraid. Seeing you in that cell made me realize I can't live without you," said Natalie, still close enough to feel the coolness of his low body temperature through his eggplant coloured dress shirt.

He exhaled. "You're more than I deserve. But we've got to be honest about what's happened and what we do from this point on. This shift in our relationship…can't continue."

"I'm willing to take my chances if it means being honest about the way we feel."

"I'm not. I can't take a chance with your life. We can't let things escalate like that again. You've seen me at my worst. Seen what I'm capable of in that state. Why didn't you run?"

"Because I have faith in us. You weren't yourself. You won't hurt me," she said resolutely.

"I've shown more than once that I can, and I might," Nick retorted.

"You won't," Nat repeated, getting up on her tiptoes and giving him a peck. He didn't pull away. "I love you. I'm not going anywhere," Natalie told him.

"Nat. A vampire's nature is to consume. And, like it or not, I'm still very much a vampire."

"Not if I can help it. We can try something new. There has to be a cure out there. What about that syringe? It cured Noelle Henriette."

"Gone. Some sort of transit mishap. Broken en-route to the Loft. The courier considered it a biohazard and chucked it."

"No way."

"I know, it sounds odd, I mean how many samples do we send out in triple bubble wrap, among other things. I've never heard of butterfingers like that. It has the ear markings of Lacroix's interference."

"One step forward—"

"Another back."

"No matter, we can beat this. You have to believe me."

"There's no one on this earth I believe in more. In the meantime…" He listened for her heartbeat.

Natalie couldn't help but be drawn into his fathomless blue eyes. She felt the feathery touch of him in her mind. "No Nick, don't," Nat said immediately. He'd tried to whammy her when she'd initially seen his vampire face. He had been wary of her keeping his secret, but she'd convinced him to trust her. "Don't take me away from you, don't run away."

"I won't. I'll be here for as long as you'll have me."

"Or take my feelings—or my will! You can't just erase what you don't like, that's a violation! We can work through anything _together_."

"I would never change _any_ part of you." Nick pulled her in his arms, placing a desperate kiss on her forehead. "I love you," he whispered. Moving to the tip of her nose, he kissed her again with another, "I love you," then crushed his lips to hers in an urgent, lengthy connection, locking the incredible sensation, the wonderful feel of her, in his mind for all time. "I love you, always," he declared afterward.

"Then why does this feel like the end for us?" said Natalie, her eyes glassy. "What aren't you telling me?"

Nick brushed Nat's escaping tears with his thumb and extended his power. His voice reverberated as he said, "Don't cry. Please don't cry. Stay close to me and listen." She shook her head slightly in protest but didn't pull away, while he ran two fingers down her baby smooth cheek, adoringly. "Never fear. It's not the end, my love. I'd never change what's in your heart. You're wonderful because you're _Natalie_."

"But," she said, trying her hardest to resist and look away. No use.

Nick frowned. "But…my strength isn't infinite and moving this connection between us to passion will break me…and destroy you, in time."

His mind tricks hit harder, leaving Natalie lightheaded. "Nick, don't. Whatever you're planning, just don't!" she argued, wanting to bolt, but her feet were glued to the parquet floor.

Every fibre of him screamed to stop at the panic on her wide-eyed face. Nick knew it was horrendous, doing this to Nat.

But saving her life was more important.

"Relax. It's alright. It'll be a new beginning to laugh and enjoy each other's company," he soothed, his tone irresistible and his eyes as sparkling and entrancing as a tropical ocean.

"A new beginning," repeated Natalie, calmly and dazedly.

Then, Nick whispered in her ear…erasing all his confessions of love, past and present.

And his heart, so full of the warmth of finding his soulmate and reason for living after so many aimless centuries, wrenched achingly...

and shattered.

When the unsavoury deed was done, Nick let a satin curl slide between his fingers wistfully, before saying, "You okay, Nat?"

"What? Uh, yes. I'm fine. J-Just drifted, I guess," she stammered, blinking back to the present.

"The song's ended and our food is on the table." Nick gestured over at the oversized plates full of delicacies. The dance floor was empty, the accordion player perched on a stool, sipping water and fumbling through papers on a music stand.

"I'm starving," Natalie admitted. "Let's go. And don't think I'll let you out of eating some." She wagged a finger at him.

Nick put his hand to his chest. "I'll have a bite, cross my heart."

"Three?" the doctor urged.

"Now, that's pushing it…but alright. Anything for milady. You're an excellent dance partner, by the way." He gave her a carefree smile; one he'd mastered through the years that hid everything inside…

then kissed her hand gentlemanly and led her back to the table.

* * *

THE END

Thanks for reading...


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